Bad Company
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Divided we fall – especially if you’re a Winchester who suffers a momentary lapse of brotherly love. Comes after season 3, episode 3. Rated T for language, situations and adult humour. Cross-posted at Supernaturalville dot net.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_**

_Ok, have backed away from the misunderstood weirdo humour of my last one, 'Illegitimi Non Carborundum', and gone back to normality, writing-wise. Please let me know if it's any better._

_This is a tribute to two of my favourite guest stars in the series – **the Impala**, who never gets enough full-on screen time, and **the Random Armadillo.**_

This is for my dad, always the best person in the world to talk cars with, and my sister, who always reads my stuff, no questions asked.

* * *

**ONE**

The Impala was making short work of the dark highway, politely ignoring the driver's attempts to pretend he was in charge. She followed the slight bends and twists, rumbling over the shallow ripples in the surface, chewing up the miles easily.

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to the music quietly. He put his hand down and turned the music up a notch, using the palm to bang time on the centre of the wheel, starting to mutter along with the lyrics.

"Don't even think about it," Sam muttered tersely, keeping his eyes on his phone. He concentrated on the screen, watching the e-mails scroll by, refusing to look up and verify the annoyed look his older brother would be throwing his way. "And don't make that face at me. I've heard '_Enter Sandman_' four times today, and I am not in the mood."

"Oh I'm so sorry," Dean said soothingly. "What would you like, some Britney Spears?"

"I'd just like something that isn't Metallica!" Sam protested. "Really! Do you have _anything else_ in that box?"

"Sure," Dean huffed, reaching over and pulling the glovebox open. He rifled a hand in, pulling out the first thing that felt like a plastic cassette box. "How about…" He pulled his hand back, flicking his gaze at the case before looking back at the patch of road lit by headlights. "How about Led Zeppelin?"

"How about a smack in the head?" Sam shot back. Dean dropped the tape into his lap and huffed.

"You got any tapes?"

"No. All my _CDs_ are in storage at Stanford."

"Well then, I'm real sorry Sammy, but looks like we're sticking with Metallica for now."

Sam slid the plastic pointer back into the slot in the phone, putting it in his lap slowly. He rolled his window down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"There, see? Just calm down," Dean said irritably.

Sam reached over and pushed the eject button on the player. He snatched the proffered cassette and raised it to the gap in the window.

"Woah woah woah!" Dean cried angrily. "Don't you dare!"

"Oh I'm sorry, is this annoying you?" he said maliciously.

"Gimme my tape!" Dean snapped, putting a hand out while trying to watch the road.

"What, this one?" Sam said, offering it to him. Dean snatched at it but Sam yanked it back.

"Saaaauum–"

"Oops!" he grinned as he flung the tape out of the window. Dean slammed his hand back against the wheel, clamping his mouth shut tightly. Sam leaned forward and snapped the radio off. "Now I swear to God Dean, if you _dare_ turn that thing back on before we've stopped for gas, I am gonna give serious thought to setting fire to the rest of your greatest hits of mullet rock," he warned.

Dean stared at the road.

He didn't say a word.

Not one.

"Well now," Sam sighed with a complacent grin, "We can enjoy a nice quiet ride to the next pit stop, can't we?"

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel, squeezing it to within an inch of its life.

The Impala winced under his death grip. She loved Dean, knew he loved her, and yet the pressure on her wheel was excruciating. A thousand epithets and pleas for mercy came screaming from her frame, cursing whoever or whatever had caused the human currently clutching at her – with a grip that could have throttled a Wendigo – to exert so much pressure.

But Dean's ears were neither capable nor ready to hear the misfortunate Chevy's cries of protest. He stared at the road, feeling his anger seep out through his fingers slowly, making sure he hung onto the steering wheel to prevent him from simply stopping the car and forcing his younger brother to hunt for the fallen cassette. Preferably with his biker boot up his arse.

Sam settled back, took a deep, satisfied breath, and lifted his phone again with a big smile.

* * *

Rosalea was thirty-two, bored out of her mind, and wishing she had another job. She looked up at the office window and was also pleasantly surprised to see what appeared to be an almost mint-condition 1967 Chevrolet Impala glide into the car park. She got up from her stool, walking to the window and looking out, listening to the resonant _glug-glug_ as it came to a rest and the tail lights went out.

She watched with growing interest as two figures got out, the taller one from the passenger side slamming the door unnecessarily. She watched as the two young men walked into the small office and dumped their duffles at their feet.

"Gents," she said, appreciating her two new guests, even if they looked like they'd each swallowed a wasp.

"Room please," the shorter one asked, putting a hand inside his black jacket, she presumed for a wallet.

"No problem. One bed or two?" she smiled, hoping.

"One," he said. "He's sleeping in the car," he added, gesturing over his shoulder with his head.

The taller one behind him slapped at his shoulder harshly, and she suppressed a smile.

"O-k," she allowed, but the man sniffed.

"Make that two beds. Do you have any rooms with partitions? Or like, the beds so far apart you can't see the other one?" he asked darkly.

"Ah… no, sorry," she smiled, looking at the tall one. She noticed similar looks on their faces and shook her head before looking down the list of free rooms. "You can have number eight. It's on the ground floor, non-smoking. That ok for you gents?" she smiled.

"Peachy," the blonder one remarked, and she smiled.

She slid a clipboard toward him, tapping it and producing a ball pen. She watched him fill in the sheet slowly, her eyes wandering to his face. She looked over at the taller one, who was letting his annoyed gaze wander round the small reception area. She drew her attention back to the writer, watching his hand move over the page steadily. She realised she had lost track of time as he straightened suddenly and turned the clipboard round for her.

She looked down quickly and squinted at the names.

"Paul Rodgers?" she smiled, then read the other one. "And Simon Kirke? Man, they have got to be the worst fake names if I've had here."

"Whut?" the blonde asked, looking at her.

"Ok, first of all? I have a sister and we still do the sibling fight thing too," she smiled. The blonde's eyes twitched from side to side guiltily, making her grin. "And anyone who doesn't recognise members of Bad Company needs a kicking."

The gloom of the reception area was decimated in an instant, the nightlight somehow managing to explode with a cascade of light and warmth, a small nova bursting through the office. The brightness was a shock, a welcome warm moment in which to revel, cat-on-its-back style, for the long moment it took Rosalea to realise the nightlight was not the reason.

The blonde man had simply grinned at her.

She closed a loose jaw and cleared her throat quickly, pretending she hadn't been staring. His mouth was moving and she made herself listen.

"You are a very perceptive lady," he smiled, waving the end of the pen at her, and she reached up and took it off him slowly.

"Am I ever," she breathed. "And it's Rosalea."

"Dude. Bed," the taller one protested.

She turned away and picked up a room key, pausing with her back to the two men as she heard hissed threats and the _whoomf_ of a jacket being slapped. She waited, then turned around again.

"Here," she said, sliding the key over the counter to the blonde one, who now looked a great deal more annoyed than he had. "There's towels and the usual in there. You need anything else, Mr Paul Rodgers, just holler, ok?"

"Uh-huh, think I will, Rosalea," he smiled suavely. The taller one slapped the side of his shoulder and his face flickered with annoyance for a second. Then he pulled his wallet out from his jacket. She cleared her throat and decided she was tired of clocking off by herself. She screwed up her courage.

"Oh no, you can get settled first, then come back and settle up here," she said brightly. "Before I get off. Like about… eleven thirty?"

"Eleven thirty, you say," the blonde one asked with a knowing smile. She found it endearing. Well, if she were being truthful she found it a lot more things too, but some of those things didn't have names that she couldn't spell or pronounce without reaching for her copy of _The Karma Sutra_.

"Definitely," she managed.

"Then I'm much obliged," he winked, picking up his bag and the room key, turning to go.

She watched the two boys walk off, pulling at her long, auburn hair and twisting it in rings round her finger. She sighed wistfully, then went back to her stool and sat, picking up her copy of '_The Da Vinci Code_' and finding her place. She tried to read.

* * *

"Hey man, I'm starving. You want anything?" Dean asked from his bed, looking over at Sam. He had his head buried in a thick book, his face betraying his absorption.

"No, I'm good," he muttered. Dean shrugged, getting up to head for the door. "Just make sure you get food and come straight back here. Don't go and get bladdered again," he added sternly.

"Do what?" he asked, stopping by the bed.

"Don't start drinking. This might just be a pit stop, but I'll be looking for fresh gigs in the morning," he added.

"Ooh yes Dad," Dean snapped, turning and looking at his younger brother. "You know what, you're 'holier than thou' attitude is really starting to piss me off," he added. He put his hands on his hips, fixing Sam with a gaze that could have given a demon third degree burns.

"Oh really?" Sam said innocently. "I didn't notice. You know, you could try to be less of an ass at times."

"Oh really."

"_Yeah_ really," Sam snapped, dropping the book from his line of sight. He thought for a long moment, then huffed and sat up properly on the bed. "You know what? It's Friday night, and I have really had enough of you. All we do is drive around together, eat together, sleep in the same room – it's worse than being eight again!"

"Oh I see, so living with me is too much like having family," Dean snapped sarcastically.

"No Dean! Living with family is having room, having private space, _not_ having to listen to you bang waitresses and counter girls in their next-door offices!" he cried angrily.

"Oh come on, Sam! You're just pissed cos you don't do it too!"

"There's a reason I don't waste my time, Dean!"

"Maybe cos you'd have to take that stick from your ass first?" Dean snapped, his face a picture of anger, and Sam slammed the book down.

"Ok. Right. Fine," he said curtly, going to his bag and pushing the book inside. "I'm thinking this is about where we part company for the weekend. You stay here and do whatever you want to that counter girl and anyone else who takes your fancy – screw the entire population of this weeny state if you really want. I'm going to do a little walking and thinking, and generally chill out before we kill each other," he stated firmly.

"What? You're just taking off?" Dean scoffed, folding his arms.

"No, I'm saying I want the weekend off from _you_," Sam snapped, swinging the bag onto his shoulder. "Come on, don't tell me you don't want two days to yourself, instead of your idiot younger brother hanging round your neck like a millstone?" he said hotly.

"Well… no," Dean said awkwardly, and Sam blinked. "Look, dumbass," he began again angrily, "you don't have a car. And if you think you're touching my Impala–"

"_Dad's_ Impala!"

"If you think you're touching my baby you better think again."

"Never even thought about it," Sam lied firmly. "I'll be back Monday."

"Wait – you're actually going?" Dean asked quickly. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." He walked to the door, putting his hand on the doorknob and turning it.

"Fine. Go do something frivolous, Scully. I'll just sit here and try not to get caught up in the usual saltin' and burnin' excitement," Dean said caustically.

"Stop with the red-headed woman jibes! It wasn't funny the first time!" Sam fumed.

"It was an episode of '_The X-Files_'," Dean said, suddenly shifty.

Sam hesitated. "What?"

"It was on a re-run a few nights ago, man. Scully goes away for the weekend and stumbles onto something exciting, and Mr Spooky spends all weekend firing pencils into the ceiling."

Sam huffed. "Well that's going to be you. _I'm_ just going to be relaxing and _not_ getting angry over your stupid tape collection."

"We'll see. I plan to be blind drunk and/or gettin' laid by midnight," Dean grunted. "Just cos I _can_."

"Really, dude, TMI."

"Which bit?"

"_Every_ bit! I'm sick at the sound of your voice!" Sam protested.

"Well go then!"

"I will!" Sam shot back. "Don't die!"

"_You_ don't die!" Dean shouted.

"Fine!" Sam snapped.

"Fine!"

Sam opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him. Dean waited, but all he heard were Sam's footsteps retreating down the hallway loudly.

He made a strangled sound in his throat, wiping two hands over his face before walking to the window and pulling back the curtain.

The parking lot was cold and dark, just a few simple lights showing the position of the Impala and the scant few other cars therein. He spotted Sam's jacket and duffle crossing the tarmac and chewed on his lip thoughtfully, watching.

Sam, heading away from the motel with quick, determined strides, suddenly lifted a hand and waved it high above his shoulder, not even turning round.

Dean shook his head slightly, letting go of the curtain and turning to look back at the motel room. He walked back to his bed, hopping on and getting comfortable on his back, folding his arms and resting against the headboard. He surveyed the room for a few silent moments.

"Pain in the ass brothers," he snorted. "He'll be back here in an hour, bored and cold."

He nodded to himself, then sniffed and picked up the TV remote.

"Now let's talk about entertainment here," he breathed. He flicked on the TV, sniffing and starting to hop the channels just slowly enough to check for anything interesting. His thumb paused and he grinned.

"That's what I like to see – little bit of _Firefly_ on a Friday night. Mmm… Gina Torres."


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

Sam wandered down the roadside, his duffle on his shoulder and his back straight. He felt free of something, something that had been nagging at him for a few days. He felt moved to start whistling, and began to enjoy the steady rhythm of his feet on the tarmac.

He was just getting into his stride when he heard a car coming up on the road behind him. He turned and watched it pass him on the opposite side of the road. Then it pulled over in front, the passenger window rolling down slowly.

"Hey!" a girl's voice called.

He paused, looking round and then over at the SUV, watching a blonde head poke out of it.

"Hey," he called back politely.

"We're looking for the Interstate," she called. He looked behind him, then ahead.

"You have to follow this road for like… five miles, I think," he said, pointing onward.

"You going that way too?" she grinned.

"I… could be," he shrugged.

"Cool! Get in!" she gushed.

He smiled to himself, crossing the dark road to the vehicle.

"Man, you are _cute_," the passenger said. "You'd better hop in the back, there's more room in there."

The side door opened to reveal four girls, two with jet black hair and two brunettes, smiling at him eagerly.

"You're… going somewhere altogether?" he asked.

"Yes we are," came a voice like hot chocolate, and he looked through the vehicle to the driver. She had turned to look through the car, back at him. Her beaded dreadlocks and beautiful dark skin took Sam's breath away. "And it looks like we're giving you a free ride, honey. Get in," she grinned.

"Why not?" he grinned, passing his duffle to one of the girls before climbing in. There was a general flutter of girlie giggles before the door was slid shut firmly and the car pulled away from the kerb again.

"This is going to be some weekend," Sam grinned to himself, and the girls giggled again.

* * *

Dean snapped up his gun quickly. He trained it on his target with deadly accuracy, his index finger rubbing at the trigger slowly as he stared. His blazing green eyes narrowed, his arm straightening slowly.

"Don't move," he warned. "Ever since we walked in here you've been watching us, laughing at us. Well not any more. I'm onto you. You're going down," he breathed.

He waited for the inevitable pleas and attempts to bargain. He lifted his chin and squinted slightly, aiming properly.

He squeezed the trigger.

The plastic sucker flew across the motel room and slapped straight into the eye of the plush toy of an armadillo, currently perched on top of the TV. However, due to the material and the angle it simply failed to make a clean contact. The sucker bounced off and fell to the dismally coloured carpet.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean marvelled, reaching for the other five suckered darts next to him on the bed. He loaded and fired all of them. Each of them simply fell to the carpet, either unwilling or unable to re-write some physics and stick to a furry object. "Gah!" he roared, frustrated, and simply threw the toy gun at the offending animal.

It wanged into the armadillo's head and pushed it off the TV soundly. Dean grinned and sat back, happy. He got up slowly, walking to the TV and collecting the six wasted plastic darts on the carpet. He paused as he straightened again, looking at them in his hands.

"Oh no," he sighed suddenly, his face dropping and his shoulders sagging. "I really _am_ Muldur." He looked at his watch quickly, then threw all the darts at the bed. "Eleven thirty. Time to catch Rosalea behind her desk."

* * *

Sam felt someone shaking him and opened an eye slowly.

"Sam? Hey, Sam. Come on, honey, it's midday already," said a voice.

He swivelled the eye to look round slowly, the rest of his body waking up enough to tell him he was under a very warm duvet. His eye agreed to pass on a limited amount of information to his muddled brain as to the room; it was nicely decorated, very girlie, and had tasteful wallpaper.

_This is not a motel_, was his first coherent thought. He tried to open his mouth to answer but it appeared to have been painted shut. With last week's stale alcohol. He tried again, realising it was more muscle control than lack of moisture preventing him from communicating with the world outside his jumbled head.

"Yeah," he managed, opening the adjoining eye to look round. Something bounced on the bed next to him, and the warm welcome smell of coffee interrupted his confusion admirably.

"Here you go, sweetie," came the voice again, and he rolled his head to look to his right. The very striking girl with dreadlocks, Mirri, was holding a tall mug of coffee, presumably for him.

The last thirty-six hours caught up with him enough to make him aware he needed food. After the toilet.

"Thanks Mirri," he yawned.

He slid himself to sit up slowly and she passed him the mug. He took it gratefully and she leaned over to him, smoothing a hand down his face appreciatively. It brought back a lot of Sam's memories suddenly and she slid all the hair from his face and kissed him firmly. She gave him a smile that touched her eyes, getting off the bed. She winked at him before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

He lifted the duvet, looked under, realised he had not a stitch on, and dropped it again. He shook his head, looking at his watch and trying to work out what day it was. He leaned over to put the very hot coffee on the side table. He scrubbed his hands in his face, trying to remember exactly what had happened. And in what order, after they had reached the driver – Mirri's – home the night before last.

It appeared to be mostly a blur, but he vaguely remembered vodka shots. And fun, excitement and adventure in Mirri's bed. And perhaps even absinthe.

"Holy shit," he concluded heavily, "I'm turning into Dean."

He got out of bed and managed to locate most of his clothes, even though they appeared to have been strewn around the room as if tossed from a Catherine Wheel. He picked up his jeans and his phone fell out. He bent and picked it up, finding two messages and a missed call on it. He blinked, surprised, then got dressed before finding the bathroom.

Half an hour later and he was ready to find out what his phone wanted him to know. He sat down in a very clean kitchen and pulled it from his pocket slowly. He opened the two messages first; one was from Dean, nearly thirty hours old. The second was simply a notification of a pending voicemail from yesterday afternoon.

He opened Dean's first:

_'Enjoy your weekend. Stay safe. Don't bang any demons.'_

Sam smiled, shaking his head and finding his voicemail number. As he was about to press the 'call' button he heard the kitchen door open and Mirri walked in. She smiled at him warmly, walking over and putting a hand to his shoulder.

"Afternoon," she breathed, kissing the side of his head. "You said you had to be off today."

"Yeah, I have to get back and make sure my brother's alright," he smiled.

"It's not even one, honey. Do you have to go right now?" she asked.

"Yeah," he managed. "I have to get back to where you picked me up, and that was quite a way."

"Well look, I have to drop my friend off this afternoon, close-by. Do you have a bus booked or you wanna come with us?" she asked.

"Oh, well… That'd be very good of you," he said politely. She grinned.

"Sugar, it'd just be nice to have you in my car again," she winked. She squeezed his shoulder before getting up and going to the cooker. "You hungry? I need food," she said, opening cupboards and looking for packets.

"Well, if you're making something…"

"Oh come now. After everything you've been up to this weekend, you need a huge late breakfast," she grinned.

"Thanks," he managed, looking back at his phone quickly. He pressed the 'call' button and listened to it connect.

The automated voice told him the date and time of Saturday, twelve fifty-five in the afternoon. He waited. Then a girl's voice started to speak.

"Hey Simon, or whatever your real name is," Rosalea began shakily, and his smile dropped slowly. "Look, I don't know where you are or what you're doing, but you have to call me at the motel right away, ask for me, Rosalea." She paused ominously. "It's Dean." She stopped talking and it sounded like she was breathing heavily. "Just call me!" she added, and then the message finished.

He played it again, listening more closely this time. Then he pulled his wallet from his jeans, looking through it for the card from the motel.

He dialled the number quickly, smelling bacon and possibly hash browns from behind him. Suddenly he didn't care.

The line clicked and Rosalea's voice spoke.

"Hey Rosalea," he interrupted quickly. "It's Sam – er, Simon," he corrected.

"Simon!" she gasped. "Simon! Where are you?"

"I'm ah… not far away," he hazarded, not entirely sure _where_ he was.

"How quickly can you get here?" she demanded.

"What is it? Where's my brother?"

"I'm not allowed in to see him and my boss is back," she said quickly. "They only let family in, they said. He told me about the fake names thing, I didn't tell them his real name."

"Who? Rosalea, who?" Sam asked quickly, fear starting to prickle down his back.

"They said he had no family cos I told them his name was Paul Rodgers," she moaned. "I'm so sorry, Simon! You have to get down here and prove you're his brother! Otherwise they won't let you in to see him."

"Let me in where?" he asked quickly. "Where is he being held?"

"He's only there till tomorrow morning, then they have to move him, they said. I really tried to get in, I really did! I couldn't tell them he was using a fake name and fake credit card, could I?" she whispered, then abruptly started to cry quietly.

Sam stood quickly, drawing the attention of Mirri, who turned down the gas to watch him cautiously, sensing something was wrong.

"Rosalea, calm down," he said patiently. He swallowed. "I'll come straight away," he assured her. "I'll come down there and everything will be fine. Do you believe me?"

"No," she whispered.

"Rosalea–"

"He was so nice! He was such a gentleman!"

"Are we still talking about Dean?" Sam wondered suddenly. Belatedly he realised he had said it out loud.

"He was just trying to protect me – he saved me!" she protested.

"Yeah yeah, ok," Sam said soothingly. Mirri came over from the stove, putting her hand on his arm gently. He spared her a worried glance. "Just tell me where he is, Rosalea," he said quickly.

"Oh Simon I'm so sorry," she managed.

"Where is he, Rosalea? Where's my brother?" he said desperately, feeling his patience snap.

She gulped in a breath, steadying her nerve a little.

"He's… he's in the morgue," she breathed. "Simon… your brother's dead."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Sam accepted the fast ride back to the motel, but it was still two hours of hasty phone calls to police and more intricate dodging of driving licenses and IDs on the way.

As Mirri's SUV pulled up in the parking lot, she turned and put a hand on his arm.

"Now Sam," she said quickly. "If you need something, call me. I have errands in this part of town. I can be here for you," she said reassuringly.

"Thanks Mirri," he said earnestly, before freeing his arm gently and sliding out of the vehicle.

He dragged himself and his duffle through the front door of the motel, looking round and finding Rosalea behind the counter. She looked up, spotted him, and dropped everything. She ran round the counter and into him, hugging onto him tightly.

"Oh Simon," she moaned, and he hugged her back.

"Look, Rosalea, can I go to the room first? I just want to check his stuff and hear your story before I get to the police station," he said.

"Sure," she said hurriedly, pulling back from him and patting his arm, avoiding his eyes. "Come on then."

She led him round to room eight, finding the police tape across the door. She unlocked it and lifted the top strap, letting him open the door and walk in first. He went to the two beds, looking round.

At first glance nothing appeared to have moved. But something bugged Sam as he walked to Dean's bed, looking over the duffle tossed carelessly on top, the empty beer bottle on the side table, the open box of half-eaten Chinese take-out next to it.

"He hasn't slept in the bed," he pointed out, looking down to find the TV remote on the right hand side of the bedcovers.

"No, he… he came back to pay for the room. He was lucky, he caught me just as I was coming off my shift," she said, curling hair round her ear and looking anywhere but at Sam.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, looking back round the room. Something about the room still irked him, but he couldn't yet place what it was. He turned in a circle, sniffing and thinking.

"I live on-site, so we went back to my room instead," she said.

"What time did you get off work?" he asked, wandering to the TV, feeling suddenly that something had moved.

"By the time I'd totalled up and handed over to the night girl it was about eleven forty-five," she said. "We ordered a pizza and took that to my room. We thought about getting beer, then just decided not to bother."

"And then?"

"And then…" She sniffed and put a hand across her mouth, closing her eyes. Sam crossed the room quickly, putting his hands to the outside of her shoulders.

"Look, Rosalea, I'm sorry, but I have to know what happened," he said gently.

"I know… I'm… I'm sorry," she managed. She swallowed and straightened. "It was about… it must have been the wee hours of the morning, cos he went out to get more uh – more uh –"

"Pepsi?" he offered, deliberately innocently. She nodded.

"Yeah, something like that – we've got a few vending machines down the hall. Anyway, the night lights were still on in the hallway, so it must have been round five." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Then… when he came back… He was cold, so cold… But he just grinned at me like a little kid, happy to be back in the warm…" She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. "So I… He got back into bed and then there was this big crash and then everything was noise and broken doors and wood was everywhere and–"

"Alright, alright," Sam said quietly, putting his arms round her securely. She held onto him, controlling her tears. Then she pulled herself away, looking at him confidently.

"He had this gun, this big gun with a white handle. It must have been under the pillow somewhere and I never knew. He pushed me off the bed, and I fell down the side. I was between the bed and the wall, and I could hear the gun firing and this awful, awful hissing and shouting."

"Was it him shouting?" Sam asked quietly.

"I don't _know_!" she stressed. "It was so noisy! I just sat there with my hands over my ears, trying not to scream!"

"Ok," he soothed, putting his hands up in surrender. She sniffed and pulled her long hair from her face, controlling her anger at her own actions.

"I heard it had stopped, so… so I looked over the bed. Dean was gone, the gun was gone, and there was blood on the floor…" She bit her lip, pausing before she looked up again slowly. "He… he can't be dead, he just _can't_ be. He was so… funny… and strong and… _alive_," she breathed.

"And then?"

"And then… I must have sat there like an idiot for a while, cos the next thing I know the police burst in. They take me away to the station and tell me one of the customers, who they now think is my 'boyfriend', is lying dead in the morgue and they think he's been attacked by a bear! They didn't even _pretend_ to be nice to me," she hissed angrily.

"Alright," he breathed, "alright. But they wouldn't let you see the… the body?" he asked.

"No, cos I was stupid and told them you'd been with him but you'd gone out. I said I didn't know when you'd be back or where you were – and then I looked up your contact number on the booking form. Dean had filled both your numbers in," she sniffed.

"That's Dean, always thinking," he sighed. "Ok, look. I already called the police and said I was going in. I have to go to the morgue. They want me to ID the body," he said.

"ID the body," she muttered. "Oh God, how did it come to this? Why did you two stumble into my motel anyway?" she asked herself lamely.

"Rosalea, listen," he said firmly. "It's not him, and we're going to clear all this up," he said with a confidence he didn't feel.

"Why do you say that?"

"Cos like you, I don't believe he could die. And I don't believe he'd leave me by myself. He doesn't even trust me to fill the gas tank on his car," he said flippantly. She smiled slightly, wiping her face.

"Ok then," she allowed quietly. "Can I come with you?"

"If you want," he nodded.

"Good. Come on then, Simon."

"Oh, by the way," he said quickly, "my name's not Simon. It's Sam," he said.

"Sam," she repeated. "Yeah. You look like a Sam." She looked around the room slowly. "Let's go then."

He crossed to the black jacket on the bed, picking it up. He let his fingers run over it slowly, feeling himself swallow and hope he was more sure about his convictions than he had ever been. He felt in the pocket and pulled out the Impala keys slowly. He jangled them in his hand, watching them move.

_He had better be alright_, he thought vehemently.

* * *

They walked up the steps to the police station, Rosalea holding onto Sam's arm firmly. They walked to the desk and Sam pulled out a fake driving license, showing it to the desk sergeant.

"Ah… Simon Kirke? I'm here to ID a body," he said quietly.

"Oh yeah," the short man said brusquely. "Wait here." He turned away from them deliberately, talking over a radio. The turned back to them. "Right. Friend of the stiff, were you?"

"Could you be _any_ ruder?" Rosalea demanded angrily, and the policeman waved his hands at her.

"Look I have to ask these questions, lady," he said, apparently unmoved.

"I'm the deceased's brother," Sam said loudly, and the man looked at him.

"Lucky you. Follow this officer, and no screaming, shouting or little-girl theatrics. _Please_," he stressed, casting an obnoxious look at Rosalea.

She fumed at him, taking Sam's arm and pulling him away from the desk. They looked at the taller female officer behind them. She nodded politely.

"I'm sorry about him. Please come this way," she said politely, and Rosalea walked after her, Sam picking up the rear worriedly.

They walked down two staircases before reaching the pathology room.

"Excuse me," Sam said quickly, before they saw any doors, "but where was he found?"

"Oh, you haven't been told?" the officer said, surprised. "He was… I'm afraid he was by the side of the road. There was a gun on the ground nearby, we assume he had tried to shoot the wild animal that attacked him."

"What kind of wild animal?" Sam asked immediately.

"From the height and the… the wounds he sustained, we're going to go with a bear," she said carefully.

"Really? A bear? All the way out here?" Sam asked.

"Looks that way. We can't think of anything else it would be," she said gingerly. "I'm sorry for your loss, I really am, but if you could come this way and help us to verify that it is Mr Rodgers, we can speed things up," she added apologetically.

"Yeah," he bit out, following her on down the corridor and then stopping outside a large door.

"Please," she said, opening the door and waving them in.

Sam walked in first, holding a shaking Rosalea's hand and walking up to the only pathology gurney in the room that was occupied. Rosalea's grip on his hand intensified as they stopped and looked at the table. Something big was under the bright white sheet, the form of it unmistakeable.

"Ok. Are you ready?" the officer asked gently, walking up to stand on the opposite side. "You don't have to say anything, if you want you can just nod," she added.

Sam nodded once, then swallowed. "I understand," he said quietly.

She lifted the white sheet back slowly.

Sam stared; he couldn't help it. The short, dark blonde hair, the pseudo Kirk Douglas chin, the stubble, the freckles… it was all there.

Confusion and Surprise battled for control of Sam. Confusion had the edge, but then was completely trounced by the abrupt arrival of Relief.

"But… that's not him," he gasped, marvelling at the man's likeness to Dean. "It's not him!"

Rosalea opened terrified eyes and looked down at the cadaver.

"_That's_ not him," she said, confused.

"Are you sure?" the officer asked, equally confused.

"Officer, that man is _not_ my brother," he said clearly. "I'd know my brother, and that's not him!"

A technician wandered over from the other side of the room slowly, his long white coat swishing around.

"I'm sorry son, but sometimes people can look different after they've passed away, so to speak," he said kindly, and Sam turned to look at him.

"Oh trust me, I know that," he said, relieved. "But really, that's not him." He turned and looked back.

"Well, a driver's license for one Paul Rodgers was found on the ground near him," the man continued. "It says born 1979, six foot one, blonde hair, green eyes, a hundred and eighty five pounds. Sure fits that description."

"Yeah, but a description like 'blonde, heavy-set, biceps the size of Baltimore' could describe hundreds of men his age!" Rosalea protested. "God, I was really convinced he was dead! How could you make a mistake like that!"

"Rosalea, alright," Sam said quickly, turning to her and holding her by the arms. "Calm down. I know you're relieved, but that doesn't tell us where he is now," he reminded her quietly. "Or why he hasn't tried to call us."

"Oh," she said, letting herself sag. "Yeah, you're right."

Sam let go of her, turning again to look at the body.

"So if he's not Paul Rodgers, who is he?" Sam asked himself.

"If he _was_ Paul Rodgers he'd have my sympathies," said a voice behind them, and everyone turned to look. It was a police officer, tall and weedy but with a bigger badge than all the others. "Considering poor Mr Rodgers has been the victim of credit card fraud. Would you know anything about that, Mr Kirke?"

Sam's mouth opened and he did the only thing he could.

"Not at all, officer," he lied politely.

"Good. Then you won't mind coming upstairs and telling us what you were doing alone in a motel room with our missing Mr Rodgers, before you left after just one hour. _Would_ you?" he said humourlessly.

Rosalea fumed in indignation and moved to push past Sam, but he grabbed her arm.

"Rosalea," he warned. She looked back at him, then at the policeman.

"Anytime you're ready," the officer sighed, gesturing to the door.

Sam and Rosalea walked out, leaving the mysterious dead man on the slab.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"So, personal effects," the officer said, tossing a plastic bag across the wooden table. "The young lady here claims her Paul had a gun, shooting wildly at some animal in the room. Is this the gun?" he asked, tapping the plastic bag.

Rosalea looked at it.

"No. I told you, it had white on it."

"It's nickel," Sam interrupted. "He carries a gun – he has a license for it," he added quickly. "It's a Colt 1911 semi-automatic, nickel-plated."

The officer – Mason – just looked at him.

"And could you confirm the nature of your involvement with Mr Rodgers?" he asked mildly.

"We're…" Sam sighed, torn. "We're brothers."

Mason snorted with amusement. "Brothers? Really? Is that how you two look _so_ alike?" he added sarcastically. Sam didn't trust himself to answer, it seemed, biting his tongue and looking at the gun rather than him. "I'd like to believe you, I really would. Only, you were with him in the motel room for barely an hour before you left. And then once you were gone, he went down to reception and made repeated use of the young lady here–"

"You obnoxious bastard!" Rosalea spat at him. He sat back, folding his arms and smiling slightly.

"Awww… You really like him, don't you, miss? And what about you, Mr Kirke? Do you like him too? Enough to come back, find out he was… enjoying someone else's affections, shall we say, and then took him out to the road? Scraped him up like some animal attack, then shot him?"

"Shot him?" Sam interrupted. "I thought that man died from his injuries?"

"He was shot, Mr Kirke, at point blank range, through the heart. We're identifying the bullet now. If it matches this Taurus handgun we found in the glovebox of Mr Rodgers' car, or the other weapon found at the scene, then we have to assume our missing Mr Rodgers killed that man out there."

"What? You went through his car?" Sam gasped in alarm.

"We took the liberty of checking inside for more weapons," he said.

"So… you found this gun?" Sam asked mildly, his eyes flicking to the weapon in the plastic bag.

"We did, Mr Kirke. Quite a nifty little Taurus, as I said. It's been processed, now we're just waiting to see who fired it last."

"Wow, you guys are a regular CSI outfit," Rosalea said sarcastically. "Are we done now? Can we go? Seeing as you have nothing to pin on us at the moment."

"At the moment," Mason nodded. "At the moment. But don't leave town. And if this mysterious Mr Rodgers should appear, or try to contact you, I'd expect you to tell me," he said with a polite smile.

"If he appears…" Rosalea closed her eyes, letting her head drop slightly. Sam put a hand out on hers, and she smiled at him. "I'll be very happy to see him," she allowed.

"I'd pay to see that," Mason said to himself, and Rosalea looked back at him.

"_You'd_ pay to see a monkey scratch its ass," she pointed out maliciously, then got up. "Come on Simon, let's go."

She pulled Sam out behind her, and they walked out of the station quickly. They walked down the steps and Sam pulled her to a stop, looking out over the street and the park beyond. He sighed and she turned to look at him.

"What?" she asked quietly. "At least he's alive somewhere."

"He could be anywhere, Rosalea. Anywhere. And… why hasn't he tried to call me?" He looked at her, then away again. "This is my fault. We argued and I took off for the weekend – and the next thing I know, he's missing and people think he's dead."

"Yeah," she said suddenly, pinning him with an accusing look. "Who _was_ that man in the morgue?"

"I have no idea," he sighed. "But my heart nearly stopped when I saw him," he admitted. She smiled slightly.

"Right. Well we need to regroup and come up with a plan to find him," she said, pulling on his arm this time, leading him across the road. They entered the park and found a bench, sitting down slowly. "Ooh look – hot dogs," she said brightly, bouncing up again and walking over to the vendor.

Sam sighed, sat forwards, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He looked around the park, watching the people go about their business. He spotted a family, sitting on a bench. A father and a mother, trying to hold onto two small boys. Sam watched, fascinated, as the younger boy poked at his brother's side. He squirmed and nearly dropped his hot dog, then turned on the younger boy. But instead of starting a fight, he simply poked his tongue out at him. The younger one giggled and then they both laughed, sitting down together and sharing the ketchup between them.

Sam smiled uneasily, then looked away to stop himself from comparing himself to them too much. He heard the breeze rustle the bushes behind him and looked up as Rosalea came back. She sat next to him and handed him a hot dog.

"No, I'm good," he managed.

"No you're not. Eat it," she commanded. "Come on Sammy, you didn't get to be this tall by avoiding hot dogs," she smiled.

He looked at her sharply. "It's Sam," he said quietly. "No-one's allowed to call me Sammy."

"Oh. Sorry," she shrugged. "Anyway, look, eat it before it gets cold."

He took it and bit into it slowly. She sat back, eating hers, and it was quiet for some minutes. They watched the park, the bushes rustling gently behind them occasionally. She finished her hot dog and looked at him.

"Oh look, you've got it down your shirt," she tutted. "Honestly. How old are you meant to be?" she teased, taking one of her tissues and wiping his front.

"Sorry. There was too much ketchup," he said, his mind automatically flashing back to the two small boys and their hot dogs.

"You can never have too much ketchup," she grinned.

"Now you sound like my brother," he allowed.

"It wasn't too much, it was just… ample," she continued, amused.

"There's only one time I like the word 'ample', and that's when it's followed by the word 'cleavage'," said a gruff voice from behind them. They paused, hearing a sniff. "Or… 'opportunity', especially when you're in a bar," it added.

Sam's eyes widened and he stared at Rosalea.

"Dean?" he dared.

"Well it ain't a talking bush, Sammy," he replied irritably.

"What are you doing in a bush?" he demanded, turning to look at the shrubbery behind the bench.

"Trying not to be spotted by the Doughnut Department across the street," he hissed, and Sam turned away again abruptly.

"Well… are you alright?" he ventured. "We've just been ID-ing your corpse, man. Except it wasn't you."

"I noticed. That poor dude got in the way. He was all raked up before I could stop it. He was seriously cut up, howling in pain, the works – had to shoot him," he allowed.

Rosalea leaned against the backrest of the bench, clearing her throat.

"Dean?" she asked quietly.

"Hey Rosalea," he replied, sounding pleased, and the bush rustled.

"Yeah. Question," she said.

"Shoot."

"Are um… Well most of your clothes are still in the sealed-off crime scene," she pointed out. "Are you naked in that bush?"

"You wish," he said, a grin in his voice, and Sam's eyes rolled, he couldn't help them. "Although I _am_ freezing my ass off out here. Sam, we need fresh supplies from the car, man. And we need to find that animal thing before it rakes anyone else into small pieces."

"What are you talking about?" Rosalea interrupted. "You're wanted for credit card fraud and now they think you killed that guy they found on the road, Dean – Dean – I-don't-know-your-surname!" she protested.

"Well I _did_ commit credit card fraud, and I _did_ shoot the guy dead, so yeah, I suppose I'm pretty screwed," he admitted, but he sounded far from upset about it. "Don't worry about it, Rosalea Euphagenia Crow," he added cheekily, and she gasped and turned in the seat.

"You said you'd never tell anyone my middle name!" she hissed at the greenery.

"Do me a favour, don't talk to the bushes," Dean said quickly, and she turned back to look at Sam. "Anyway, Sammy? Get the Impala – we need a safe place to meet up so I don't get arrested. There was a gym building a while back, we'll go there. Rosalea, we need food."

"You cheeky shit," she scoffed indignantly, "we're going to need more than just food."

* * *

Sam drove the Impala out of the car park, Rosalea sitting in the passenger seat. She looked the inside over slowly.

"I love these old cars," she smiled, sliding a hand over the window block.

"You're not the only one," Sam muttered. She leaned forward and opened the glovebox, pulling out small items.

"Oh my god, are these _tapes_?" she asked, reading the spines.

"Do you see a CD player in here anywhere?" he replied with a smile. "He loves his tapes."

"Ooh, Motorhead," she muttered, fishing some more. "Lynyrd Skynyrd? Bet he's got some great classic stuff in here," she added enthusiastically, rifling through the tapes. Sam sighed, shaking his head in incredulity. "Screaming Trees? AC/DC and… AC/DC and… AC/DC… Kansas? Bad Company? Pity he doesn't have any Metallica," she added.

"He does, he plays it all – oh. We ah… kinda lost that tape," he admitted quietly. She smiled at him.

"You mean it snapped? These old chromium oxide things'll do that," she said fondly. Sam looked at her, then back at the road.

"So look, Rosalea… You don't have to come along, you know. I can sort out my brother. You can go back to work," he offered.

"What? Leave him out there with just his boots?" she scoffed. "Hardly. I kinda feel responsible, I mean… you two did stay in my motel room. And I did kinda make a mess of things between you two."

"How's that?" he asked, confused.

"Well… You two were in a bad mood before you even walked in. Then I think me being there just made things worse," she said quietly.

"Really, Rosalea, don't worry about it. We already trying not to kill each other before we stopped at 'your' motel," he smiled. "It's just… We're on the road together, all the time, and sometimes you just want to smack the guy upside the head, you know? For all those stupid little things he does that wind you up. We were just at one of those places where we were bad company for anyone, let alone someone already wound up."

"I know," she nodded. "This is why I haven't seen my sister in three years."

Sam frowned, watching the road. "Three years?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I think about calling her, just to say hi, but… If I called, she wouldn't pick up the phone." She looked out of the window suddenly, and Sam sighed.

"You know… Me and my brother were like that once," he said lightly. "Maybe later you could call her and just say hi, like… no strings. Then one day maybe she'll call you back, just to say hi," he offered.

"Yeah. Maybe," she said faintly.

"Here we are," Sam said, slowing the Impala and pulling to the kerb. He looked up and down the street, making sure no other cars appeared to be following them. He waited for a gap in the traffic, then U-turned across two lanes, pulling into the sports ground's car park.

"Why here?" she asked.

"Cos its full of people," he shrugged. He brought the car to a stop and got out, waiting for her to do the same.

They walked in through the front doors, following the signs to the changing rooms. Rosalea moved to follow Sam, but he stopped.

"Ah… it's the men's?" he pointed out, gesturing to the sign.

"Yeah right. Like I've never seen the inside of a gym locker before," she snorted, walking on past him.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Rosalea ignored the men's protests as she strode into the men's changing room, sniffing and heading for the cubicles with curtains at the back. She found only one had a drawn curtain and stopped. Sam came up behind her but she stepped back one and bent down to look under.

"I recognise those big-ass boots," she grinned, standing again and opening the curtain.

"Hey," Dean said, his face changing from cautious suspicion to a big smile immediately. She ignored the earthy smell to his grimy t-shirt and the deep scratches on his face as she threw herself at him. She grabbed him in a bear hug, squeezing him tightly for as long as she could. "Woah, down girl," he grinned, and she stepped back to hold onto his arms.

"You really aren't dead!" she whispered hoarsely, aware of the men watching and listening.

"Not as far as I can tell," he grinned. "You alright?"

"I am now," she nodded, then looked back at Sam. "Oh, er, Sam's here too. Your car's outside, he said everything you'd want is in there."

"Cool," he said quickly, letting go of her and looking at Sam. "Did you bring my stuff?"

"Yeah, I brought your stuff," Sam said deliberately, "Don't worry about me, though, I was alright even though I had to ID your body," he added pointedly.

Dean pulled Rosalea to one side gently. "I'm sorry, Sam. Here," he said, putting his arms out, "give me a hug."

"Jerk," Sam tutted, turning away and walking back out. Dean looked at Rosalea, who put her arms round his neck again and held on.

"I am _so_ glad you're not dead," she breathed, before pulling his head round and kissing him.

"Today!" Sam called from the doorway.

"Um, yeah, let's go," Dean said quickly, pushing her to follow his taller brother.

* * *

"So where are we going?" Sam asked from the driver's seat, looking in the rear view mirror and watching his brother sort through his duffle on the back seat. Rosalea turned in the passenger seat, putting a hand out and picking up a clean t-shirt. She handed it to him.

"Thanks. We have to go to the motel and find out what started this animal off," he said, lifting the t-shirt he had on and pulling it off over his head awkwardly, the confines of a moving car not the best place to try and get shot of a filthy garment.

"Dean!" Rosalea said suddenly, "What happened?"

He looked down and saw the multiple scratches and welts across his front, some of them scabbed with dried blood.

"Oh yeah, well, that thing was pretty fast," he shrugged, picking up the clean t-shirt. She grabbed his arm suddenly, tutting at three cuts on his left shoulder. She held it still, inspecting the rakes and finding them deep and messy, having been left to bleed and dry all by themselves.

"Those need cleaning. You're going to get a staph infection," she pointed out. He looked at her, pulling his arm from her hold gently.

"After we've found this animal," he said, ignoring her look of disgust and pulling the clean t-shirt on. He shoved all of his things back into his duffle, rooting around for something. "Well well well, my phone," he said, opening it. "Aw, look at that. Sammy was so worried about me, he didn't even call once."

"I was told you were dead, Dean. And anyway, why didn't you call _me_?" Sam shot back.

"Cos my phone was in Rosalea's room! Don't know if you've noticed Sam, but I've been hiding out in some other guy's stolen t-shirt since the early hours of Saturday morning," he snapped back.

"Alright! Save it!" Rosalea said abruptly. "What we have to do is drop you somewhere while we look at my motel room."

" 'We'?" Dean and Sam both prompted together.

"Me and Sam. You can't go in there," she snorted at Dean, "the place is still being watched by police. Sam, think of a place to hide him. You and me will take a look at my room. Since the police have kicked me out, anything helpful like animal prints must still be in there. Dean, get your jacket on, it's getting cold," she instructed. The boys exchanged a glance via the rear view mirror. "What?" she asked. "Any questions?"

"Can I call you Rosie?" Dean asked with a cheeky grin.

"Sure – if you want a slap," she said with a broad, innocent smile, and he laughed. "Right then. What do we need to look at back in the room?"

* * *

Rosalea and Sam crossed under the yellow tape and ducked into the room, Sam surprised to find there was no door to speak of.

"It came through the door," she said unnecessarily. Sam nodded, looking down at the broken up, splintered wood on the floor.

"This is salt," he said suddenly, crouching down and lifting powder in his fingers.

"Salt?" she asked, walking over to her TV. She spotted the stuffed armadillo toy on the floor and smiled slightly, picking it up and sitting it back on top of the set.

"Yeah, it's ah… Well, sometimes Dean has live rounds in his gun, sometimes salt," he said thoughtfully. "Did you see him shoot at the animal?"

"I saw the first shot. It kinda went straight through it," she said. "Must be some gun your brother has."

"No… Perhaps the animal was a spirit. The first bullet went straight through cos Dean didn't have time to take out the live round. The next round must have been a salt packet," he mused, standing again.

"He shot it with salt?" she asked, confused. "Why?"

"It's not a real animal, Rosalea. It's a spirit."

"You mean a ghost?" she asked, then laughed suddenly. "He shot at a ghost? So how did it kick the door in? _Why_ did it kick the door in? And how did it kill the guy out on the road? With foul language?"

"Sometimes they can make parts of themselves solid for as long as they need to do whatever it is that they need to do," he shrugged. He pulled the EMF meter out of his pocket and crouched over the salt. He switched it on and it started whining straight away. "Yep. He shot a ghost alright."

"Oh really," she asked flatly, then simply watched Sam read the lights and dials. "Wow. You're not kidding about this, are you?" She took a deep breath, then sighed it all out. "What the hell. So… how can we track this ghost thing?" she asked, beyond caring.

"First we need to find out why it only attacked your room," he said. "Maybe it's after you."

"Me?" she gasped. "Why me? I've been here two years and never been attacked by a ghost animal before. Mind you, never took a man like your brother home, either," she mused to herself.

Sam looked at her quickly. "What do you mean?"

"Well… nothing. Just… I don't make a habit of picking up strange men," she said quietly. She looked at Sam, then sighed. "Because he made me laugh," she admitted guiltily. "Honestly, Sam… I'm divorced with no kids, no family except a sister who doesn't speak to me… He's the first guy that has made me laugh out loud in a long time in this crappy, dead-end job. Ok? So stop looking at me like that," she said desperately.

"Like what?" he asked, surprised.

"Like you feel sorry for me! If anything, _I'm_ the one taking advantage of _him_. He just needs some recognition, some appreciation–" She stopped abruptly, covering her face with her hands. "Oh God, listen to me. I'm sorry, Sam. You're his brother, you must be screaming on the inside 'shut her up'!" she huffed.

He smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"Really… it's fine Rosalea," he said quietly. "We don't meet many girls like you, either," he smiled, turning away to look round the room again. "You sure like your soft toys," he remarked, sweeping the EMF meter over the jumble of dust-covered toys.

"Oh, I know. There's a funky old shop in town, I like to look through the antique bears and stuff in there sometimes."

"I get the bears," Sam said thoughtfully, "and I get the elephants, and the dolphins… but why the armadillo?"

"Oh he's not mine," she said. "There's one in every room."

"Every room? Why?" he asked.

"This is the Armadillo Inn," she said deliberately. Sam 'ah'ed and looked sheepish for a second. "The boss thought it would be fun to have a soft toy of one in every room."

"Right."

"Dean hates him," she grinned, turning and walking to the TV, picking up the plush toy and pushing at its nose slightly. "First thing he did was push him off the TV."

"That's one thing I wouldn't argue over," Sam smiled. "Not exactly a looker, is he?" He paused suddenly, something coming back to him. "Wait – you said there's one of these in every room?"

"Yeah, every one."

"There wasn't one in – yes there was," he interrupted himself. "So… where is it now?" He turned and ducked out of the room through the tape, going round to room eight and opening the door slowly.

He walked in and Rosalea followed him, just as Sam's phone started to ring. He pulled it from his pocket as he walked to the TV.

"Yeah?"

"Sammy. You done yet?" Dean asked. "Woah! No! Left! Left!" he shouted suddenly.

Sam pulled the phone away from his ear slightly so as not to be deafened.

"Dean? No, we're not done yet, and I have some questions for you," he added.

"Ok, shoot – go! Go! Come on, man!" Dean shouted again.

"Dean! Stop what you're doing and pay attention!" Sam called shortly, casting Rosalea a glance. She pretended she wasn't smiling.

"Sorry man, watching the basketball," Dean allowed. "Not much else to do in a sports ground."

"Great. Right, listen. You shot this thing. Did you get a good look at it?" he asked.

"Not really – I thought it was one of them shifter things. First it looked like some kind of animal, then it looked like a guy in a bear suit, you know, like a really crappy Hallowe'en costume kinda get-up. I had my gun but it wasn't loaded right – I forgot the first round was a live one."

"Uh-huh, we got that. The other six?"

"All salt packets. Got him straight in the eye," Dean said proudly. "Took all of 'em to get him to split. Then I heard him down the hall."

"And you ran after him?"

"What are you, an idiot?" Dean snapped, and Sam raised his eyebrows, surprised. "No I did not. I got my jeans and boots back on, then I jumped out the window, it was quicker."

"You stopped to get your pants on?"

"You think I'm just gonna run around wearing nothing but my amulet? I didn't want to get arrested _that_ much," Dean countered sarcastically.

"Right, so anyway… you followed it?"

"I ran across the car park but couldn't see it. Then I heard this screaming and your usual spirit-animal-attack crunching sounds, so I followed it. Found it gouging organs out of poor Dead Dude by the side of the road," he said.

"Nice image," Sam replied, looking at the TV again and around slowly. "And then?"

"It turned on me, made like Wolverine. Think we both got a bit scratched up. I shot at it with salt till I was out, but then it just plain vanished. I waited but it didn't come back. Then that guy was moaning and begging, and… well, he wasn't going anywhere but down and I didn't want him to go the hard way," Dean allowed. Sam nodded to himself, closing his eyes briefly. "I loaded a live round and I ah… I shot him."

"You were carrying live rounds?"

"What can I say, these pockets in my jeans ain't for ballast," he said quietly.

"Fine. The gun?"

"Kinda lost track of it… I must have dropped it – what's that phrase – 'fleeing the scene'," he said uneasily. "Did you find it? It's got my prints on it and there's a matching round in the dead guy."

"No. You also dropped your fake driver's license, dumbass," he said disapprovingly. "That's why they asked me to ID the guy. Funny though, he actually matched your description." He paused, thinking about it. "Anyway, the police have your gun now. And like you say, it's got your prints on it – not Paul Rodger's, Dean Winchester's. Do you realise what that means?" Sam asked patiently.

"We're gonna get flagged by the FBI. Je_sus_," Dean spat, and Sam sighed.

"Um, one more question before I figure out how we're going to get out of this one," Sam said lightly, and Dean waited.

"What?"

"Was there an armadillo on the TV set when we came in?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, where is it now?" he asked.

"How the hell should I know? Maybe it got up and walked away," he said flippantly, then sniffed. "I shot at it. Hated it watching me, man."

"You shot at it? With what?" Sam demanded.

"With the plastic suckers I found in the bureau," Dean said, amused. "Don't worry Sam, I didn't plug the little weasel with salt. Kinda wish I had, though."

"Why?" Sam asked, not even paying attention as he looked down the back of the TV, finding the armadillo.

"Just hate him. Felt like he was watching us the whole time," he said, shivering with revulsion. Sam heard it down the phone and smiled.

"Well don't worry, he's just a stuffed toy," he said, lifting it to look at it carefully. He sniffed slowly. "Wait, what did you say you shot it with?"

"Plastic suckers, like kids' dart things," Dean said. "Why?"

"Nothing… But… this one smells kinda funky. I don't think it's a toy," he said slowly. "I think it's a real stuffed dead armadillo."

"That's just gross!" Dean protested. "Who the hell puts a dead animal in a room? Just what do these out-in-the-boonies people do?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised just what they _do_ do," Sam said, then clamped his mouth shut in mortification, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as he shook his head.

Dean laughed suddenly. "Dude, you said 'do-do'," he grinned.

"What are you, five?" he countered, but he couldn't help smiling. "Look, we're finishing up here. Looks like we have some armadillo lore to look up."

"And who is 'we'?" a voice said from the door.

Rosalea and Sam looked over quickly. Tall, weedy Officer Mason was standing in the doorway, flanked by three policemen. He smiled serenely at them both.

"Afternoon, Mr Kirke. Or rather, Samuel Winchester. So tell me… where is Dean?"


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

Dean waited but the phone line went dead. He closed his phone, picked up his duffle, and wandered down the steps to the side of the basketball court, leaning on the divide and watching. He surveyed the other people in the crowd, watching and cheering, shouting for someone or something. He sniffed, putting a hand to his face to rub it wearily.

But it stung and he hissed, pulling his hand back and looking at it. It was clean but he sighed, shaking his head.

It was a good twenty minutes and a whole game later that his phone began to ring again. He pulled it out of his pocket to find a strange number calling him.

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously, hoping it was not the police.

"Dean! Stay where you are!" Rosalea cried urgently down the line.

"What is it? Where's Sam?" he said quickly.

"He's been arrested – I'm coming to get you and we'll have to – _goddamn it_!" she hissed quickly.

"You're driving?"

"I've got your car, wait there!" she called.

"Woah woah woah – you're driving my car?" he demanded, outraged.

"Yes! I'm not far away, keep a look out. We need to haul ass, don't make me wait," she barked.

"Yeah yeah – no no – just keep your eyes on the road and don't drive into anything!" he said quickly. He could feel sweat breaking out down his back.

"Cheeky shit," she managed, and then the line went dead. He stared at the phone, horrified.

The world swirled, blackness encircling his head, the screech of harpies and/or banshees from Hell and all associated places off the usual tourist map making themselves heard. Blood pounded through his temples, breath rushing in and out of him faster and faster. He felt his grip on the physical world growing weaker and weaker, the sights and sounds dropping away from him alarmingly quickly. He was aware of his head tipping up, his feet trying not to stumble, the sound of his breathing hollow and lightning fast.

Something heavy landed on his back and he coughed out a breath. It pushed him to bend over and slap his hands on his knees quickly. Blood rushed back to his head and he held his breath desperately to stop himself blacking out. The thing on his back remained and then patted suddenly.

"Hey buddy, you ok? You don't look so good," came a voice from beside him.

His vision cleared and he gasped in a steady breath to try and ground himself. He straightened slowly, looking down at a scrawny basketball youth, watching him warily.

"Naw I'm… I'm good, thanks," he managed, waving him away. The lad nodded dubiously but shuffled off, not looking back. Dean looked up and around, making sure he hadn't drawn attention to himself.

No-one appeared to have noticed the young man who had almost passed out on the steps.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, shaking his head. "I'm stranded, Sam's been arrested – and there's a _chick_ driving my car!"

* * *

"So, Samuel, take a seat," Officer Mason said pleasantly.

Sam sat down, wondering why his hands were not cuffed and the other three policemen were waiting outside the door.

"Care for a coffee?" the officer continued.

"No, thank you, sir," he said politely.

"You see?" Mason said, pulling out the other soft chair, plonking his skinny frame into it and folding his arms.

"See what, sir?" Sam asked innocently.

"That," Mason said, pointing a finger at Sam's chest, "is how people should be with police. After all, we're only here to help," he added with a smile. "And I know you're a good boy, Samuel. I checked on you, right after Officer Michaels out there found your brother's prints on that nickel-plated Colt we found not far the dead body. I read all about your brother – faking his death, killing sprees, bank robberies, yadda yadda yadda, and then I saw your name. I read about you, Samuel. You're a good boy. You went to Stanford. You have nice friends. You haven't broken any laws, you're not wanted for anything."

"No, sir," Sam admitted, for some reason feeling a little guilty.

"Which is why I'm astounded, Samuel, absolutely _astounded_ that you've stood by such bad company as your brother for so long." He paused thoughtfully. "He's your only family, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well I can see how you'd think that staying on his good side would be safer, and perhaps wiser in the short term. But see, your brother's in a lot of trouble, which I think you understand from doing that fancy law degree of yours. And I think you're just looking for a way to jump ship, only you've kinda been boxed in till now. Now while Dean's on the lam, you can think about… about your own life. About what _you_ want to do. Does that sound good to you?" Mason asked slowly, with a sympathetic smile.

"Yes sir, it does," Sam said truthfully. "Having my own life… it's all I've ever wanted."

"Well. Let's say I could find a way to help you Samuel. Would you believe me?"

"Yes, sir," he said quietly, watching the table.

"And why would you believe me, Samuel?" he asked curiously.

"Because you're a policeman, sir," Sam said, looking up at the skinny officer.

His eyebrows lifted to exactly the correct angle and height, the outsides of his eyes let themselves sag, his bottom lip curved just enough to give the impression that it was about to pout. The space between his eyebrows rucked up to the optimum shape and relief, and the cleanest, purest form of innocence ever known to man, beast, spirit or indeed animal, mineral or vegetable flooded Sam's face.

The officer smiled.

"That's a good boy. Now… question is… if you knew where Dean was, would you tell me? Cos believe me, Samuel, I can make him go away for a very long time. We can help you find your own life, fit in somewhere, start to live. You'd never have to drive out of state again, or be forced to shoot these fictitious things your brother believes are killing people. He'll never be able to make you dig up some coffin again."

"I think…" Sam began, then stopped to reconsider. "No, you're right. I don't want to shoot monsters anymore, or drive for him when he's asleep, or put up with his music, or see the things we have to see. And I really, _really_ don't want to dig up any more coffins," he said quietly. There was a firmness that Mason took to, and it made him smile.

"There, see?" he said encouragingly. "So all you have to do is tell me where your brother is. Then we can find him and make sure he doesn't keep you trapped in this shitty existence."

Sam looked up at him slowly, his eyes slightly wider. Mason wondered if it were through hesitation or longing. Then he watched the Winchester brother's face turn sad, his chin sticking out slightly in bravado.

"I… I want to but… I'm really not sure it's a good idea," he managed, deflating a little. Mason smiled.

"That's alright son, we have time. You think about this, I'll get you some coffee."

* * *

Rosalea slid the Impala round the street corner and shot down the road. She bounced her up over the kerb opposite the playground and screeched to a halt. She leaned forward and looked through the passenger window at the ballgame going on across the street.

She caught sight of Dean hurrying through the crowd toward the road, checking the traffic before dashing out and across. He grasped at the handle and yanked the door open with a reluctant squeak, sliding in quickly.

"Close it close it," Rosalea said quickly, already sliding her into gear and checking the street. She tore off again, and Dean barely managed to slam the door before they careened round the corner toward the traffic lights.

"Aw baby – you ok? Huh? Huh?" he demanded in anguish, his hands sliding to and fro across the front dash.

"I'm fine," Rosalea replied, surprised at his tone.

"Not you, ma car!" he managed, then looked at her. "But – obviously – I'm – ah – also worried you're ok after–"

"Relax," she grinned, heaving the classic round a corner.

"Slow down!" he protested, his hands trying to clutch at the dash.

"Just watch out for police. They know this car, we're might have to hide her till this is sorted out," she said quickly as she brought the Impala to a stop at the lights.

"What?"

"Just watch," she said quickly, putting her foot down as the lights went green. Dean was pushed back in his seat with the momentum, putting his hand to the window block securely.

"Alright, I'll watch – just take it easy," he said urgently. "We'll be spotted easy if you drive like a whack-job!"

"Point taken," she said, letting out a deep breath and checking the rear view mirror, easing off on the accelerator.

"Now run this by me again – Sam's been arrested, but you're here with my car?" he asked, confused.

"No, we were _both_ asked to come to the station. Sam bumbled about to cover me making a break for this old thing, and–"

"Hey!" he protested. "She ain't old, she's a classic."

She spared him a brief glance. "Alright, calm down," she grinned knowingly, taking a corner gracefully. Dean blinked. "Look, Sam's going to do whatever he can to slow them down while–"

"Nice," he managed, surprised.

"What?" she asked, confused, her eyes still on the road.

"I said… er…"

"Don't tell me you expected me to total your car before I got to you?" she said archly. "You thought I'd get your fenders bent cos I'm a woman driver?"

Dean hesitated. "Well… you know… it's not you, it's… I don't even like Sam driving my car…"

"Really," she snorted. "My dad taught me to drive. He was a Nascar coach." Dean closed his mouth and made himself look out of the window. It was quiet for a few moments.

"So… you and Sammy got separated?" he said seriously.

"Yeah. They're probably trying to get him to tell them where you are. In the meantime, we have to find out how an armadillo fits into all this and get rid of it."

"Jinkies," he said deliberately, and if there had been a worldwide shortage of sarcasm it would have been down to one son of Winchester using it like it was going out of fashion. She looked back at him.

"What?"

"When did I die and leave you in charge?" he asked, lost.

"Early hours of Saturday morning, as I remember," she winked. He thought about it, scratched his head, and then looked out of his window.

"Right, let's get a handle on what's going on here," he said curtly, turning in the seat and reaching to the back one, taking his duffle and shaking it out. "Damn!" he hissed.

"What?" she asked, negotiating the traffic much more sedately than before.

"Dad's journal, it's not here," he said, sitting back round.

"What does it look like?" she asked quickly.

"Ah… kinda big, brown, with like a clasp thing over it, lots of newspaper cuttings sticking out the–"

"It's in room eight," she said confidently.

"Room eight? Really?"

"Yeah – it was on your bed with your March edition of some weirdo British magazine called _The Fortean Times_," she said with a wry smile. "You read some weird shit."

"Well excuse me, Rosie, you're the one driving my car cos I'm wanted for shooting at a spirit armadillo," he snorted, and she giggled.

"You're right. How random is that? An armadillo?" she mused.

"Look, I need my dad's diary or this is going to go tits-up very quickly," he pointed out.

"Now _that's_ an interesting phrase," she smiled.

"Huh?"

"So we get back to the motel, you hide, I'll get the journal, we–"

"No, Rosie. We get back to the motel, you and me sneak in a window, find the journal and work out how to kill spirit armadillos," he said firmly. He paused, then shook his head sadly.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just can't believe we're talking about how to kill spirit armadillos," he sighed.

* * *

"So then," Mason said with a smile, placing a large ceramic mug on the table in front of Sam. "Have you had time to think about this?"

"Yes sir, I have," Sam said guiltily. Mason smiled and went back to his seat, sitting slowly.

"And?" he asked.

"And… I'm wondering… well, I know you're a policeman and you do this all the time, but… How can I be sure I'll be safe? From my brother? I mean, he's kinda bullied me and ordered me about since I could walk. I'm just afraid that… if I have to see him again, I won't be able to do this," he said truthfully.

"That's alright son," Mason said confidently. "You won't have to see him again."

"Are you sure?" he asked plaintively.

"Absolutely," he said. "The FBI are on their way down now – should be about, ooh, three hours or so," he said cheerfully. "Once they've got him, he won't be able to escape or find you. Trust me."

"Ok," Sam breathed, sitting back slowly. Then he looked at Mason. "So… aren't you angry? At the FBI taking away your prisoner?" he asked innocently.

"Oh Samuel," he smiled, folding his arms. "It's all about sharing in this game. I agree to hand over Dean Winchester and the files tying him to yet another murder, and in return… Well, let's just say I won't have to wear this uniform to come in here anymore."

"Oh," Sam managed. "Seems fair," he mumbled, and Mason grinned.

"Doesn't it. So… tell me Sam, where is he?"

Sam picked up the mug and took a long, long sip of the coffee.

"This is good, sir," he offered lamely. Mason just smiled. Sam sniffed slightly, looked around the room, then back at Mason. "You know it's not just him, sir," he said.

"What?"

"Well, the lady I was with, sir? She's with him. She stole the car, I heard it drive away while we were leaving. So she must be going to find him now."

"Thank you, Samuel," he said happily. "We're already on the lookout for the vehicle."

"Oh. But… do you know what he's got in the trunk?"

"No, can't say we do," he said curiously.

"I'm not allowed to open it – he never lets me open it," he said urgently.

"Really… So what's inside?"

"Guns," Sam whispered, leaning across the table slightly and pinning the officer with a furtive, anxious stare. "Lots of guns."

"How many?" he asked quickly, snapping fingers at the mirror behind Sam.

"So many – I really don't know sir, I was never allowed to touch them," he said fearfully. "But if he has that many guns, shouldn't you take more policemen? Can you afford to wait three hours for the FBI to get here and find out he has an arsenal in his trunk?"

"Wait," Mason said, standing quickly. The door opened and the short desk sergeant appeared.

"Yep?"

"Get me Dispatch," he said quickly. "We need to organise everyone in the station, quickly!"

Sam sat back, sighed, and picked up his mug.

"Where is he?" Mason said quickly, greed lighting his eyes. "Where's Dean Winchester?"

"At the basketball court, corner of 3rd and 11th," Sam said innocently, with perhaps just the wisp of a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Rosalea brought the Impala to a stop at the side of the road, killing the engine and looking at Dean as she pulled the keys from the ignition.

"Look, maybe you should stay here," she said quickly. "What if someone sees you?"

"What if someone sees _you_?" he asked. "You're a fugitive too, now."

"True. But I'm not wanted for murder and fraud," she pointed out.

"Well if that's all they've got on me, I'm getting off lightly," he managed, before opening the door and disappearing. She sighed, then got out of her door, smiling as the door squeaked closed.

She walked round the back of the car to find him opening it and lifting the false bottom.

"Your doors squeak," she pointed out.

"I ain't the little boy I was, sweetheart," he quipped as he reached in and took out a sawn-off shotgun. She just blinked at the sight of the arsenal before her. She watched him root through for a handgun and take that out as well. Her eyes continued to sweep over the contents of the boot dumbly.

"What–"

"Here," he said, handing her a small box. "Hoping we don't need it. But I'd rather have it and not need it than the reverse," he shrugged.

"And…" She opened the box and looked inside. "Shells."

"Salt packets," he amended, closing the boot quietly.

"For… shooting ghosts?"

"That's right."

"Uh… look…"

"What?" he asked, turning and looking at her directly. She hesitated.

"Nothing, I just… I mean… ghosts?"

Dean smiled suddenly. "Yeah, I know. I remember the first time I saw a ghost. Freaked me out," he shivered, turning toward the motel. She caught the arm of his jacket securely and he looked back at her.

"Just… be careful," she said.

"Oh trust me Rosie, hunting ghosts is the easy bit," he smiled. "Avoiding the cops, that's a-whole-nother problem. Come on," he said, gesturing to the motel with his head. "What's the best way in?"

* * *

Sam looked up at Officer Michaels slowly.

"Can I , er… can I make a phone call please?" he asked quietly.

"Mr Winchester, you're allowed three," she said pleasantly. "You do realise we'll be listening?"

"Yeah," he said. "Just want to call my brother. Tell him I'm sorry," he said uneasily, and she sighed. She sat down opposite him, reaching out and taking his hand.

"I know this can't be easy for you. But you have to remember you're doing the right thing here." She paused and he smiled apologetically, his eyebrows hitching up in extreme discomfort. "I'll give you a minute," she said, getting up and walking out of the room slowly.

She closed the door behind her, and Sam pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket slowly. He looked at it for a long moment.

He scrolled through the numbers slowly, then found the one he wanted. He pressed the call button and raised it to his ear, waiting.

"Hey," said a surprised voice.

"Hey, er… Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It was the only thing I could do," he said slowly. "You do believe me, don't you, Dean?"

"Ye-ah," Dean managed, confused. "What are we talking here?"

"Oh… BS, I suppose," he admitted guiltily.

"BS? Really?" Dean replied seriously.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"How long's this been going on, Sam?" he demanded.

"Er… maybe… fifteen. Fifteen years," he said quietly.

"Then… Then you're in trouble, Sammy. I'm coming for you," he said angrily. The line was cut.

Sam looked up at the mirror, knowing he was being watched from behind it. He sighed and put an elbow on the table, letting his chin fall into his hand. He pouted.

* * *

"Super," Dean hissed, pocketing the phone. Rosalea looked at him, still halfway through climbing in the ground floor window.

"What is it?" she asked.

"BS!" Dean tutted. "Friggin' great."

"What does that mean?" she asked, dropping to her feet on the wooden floor. "BS? As in bullshit?"

"No, as in Bait and Switch," he replied quickly, looking round the room. "Sam's told the police we're at the basketball court right now. The police left fifteen minutes ago," he added.

"Why did he do that?" she asked, confused.

"To stop them trying here first. He's bought us some time. And to get rid of all the cops at the station. They could down to a skeleton crew," he added, an opportunist gleam in his eye.

"And what happens when they can't find us?"

"They'll come here. We have to find my dad's journal and get the hell out of here," he said, going to the door to the hallway. She followed him down the hall, pausing as he stopped outside room eight. "The police cordon's gone," he observed suspiciously. He put his hand on the knob and walked in, looking round.

She followed him in, looking around. "Oh no," she moaned, "the room's been cleaned. We have to get to the store room, any stuff that's found in the rooms gets dumped in there."

"Good. Let's go," he nodded, turning for the door.

But she froze. "Can you hear that?" she whispered. He stopped and looked back at her.

"What?" he asked quickly. Then he jerked around quickly, eyes narrowed. He brought the shotgun up and pumped two rounds into the chamber. "Stay behind me."

The low hissing sound set Rosalea's teeth on edge as she followed him to the doorway. He looked out, raising the shotgun quickly. He checked his left, then his right.

"Where's the store room?" he breathed urgently.

"Right," she whispered. "That's the same sound," she added. "It made that noise before it came through the door."

"Yeah, I remember," he said quickly, keeping the shotgun up as he started down the hallway.

They walked down slowly. The steady shuffling of Dean's boots made the hissing noise seem louder. They reached the end of the hallway. Dean stepped forward smartly and checked the left-hand bend shotgun-first. He moistened dry lips and watched the walls carefully.

"That the room?" he asked, nodding forwards. Rosalea looked round his shoulder.

"Yeah."

"You stay here."

"Like hell!" she hissed, grabbing onto the back of his jacket firmly. "You're the only one with a gun!"

He paused, taking his left hand from the shotgun and putting it to the back of his jeans.

"Here," he said, handing her the Glock handgun. She looked at it.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. It's loaded with salt. Just don't shoot _me_," he added, taking hold of the shotgun again. He pointed it in front of him and shuffled toward the store room door.

* * *

"Sir? No sign over here, either," the officer radioed, turning round in a circle, staring at all the people watching the basketball game. The overhead lights had come on, the sun starting to set, making it all so much more difficult. Shadows started to loom and stretch, making people's faces harder to check with any clarity.

"Fine. Spread out. We're not leaving here without the suspects," came the reply. The officer sighed, walking to the tiered seats and starting to walk up them slowly, surveying the crowd.

* * *

Dean put a hand on the doorknob, opening the store room slowly and looking in. Rosalea stepped in front of him and nipped in quickly, hurrying to the bookshelf at the back. She scanned it quickly.

"Is this it?" she asked, lifting the bound book.

"That's it," he said, relieved. "And my _Fortean Times_?"

"Are you for real?" she gasped.

"Hey, there was an article on a dog-beast found in–"

"Dean, how does this book help us?" she interrupted.

He let the shotgun drop and put his hand out. "Hopefully somewhere there's some information on armadillos attacking people," he said, handing her the shotgun quickly and beginning to leaf through it.

"Shouldn't we go somewhere _else_ to read it?" she said patiently.

"Naw, we might just have to come back here to get rid of the thing," he muttered, pre-occupied as he paged through. "Look," he said suddenly, stopping.

"What?" she asked, looking down at the page he was reading. She spied rough sketches and notes, newspaper clippings and red ball pen markings on it. She gave up trying to read and waited.

"Not an armadillo, but… large animals appearing out of nowhere, attacking people. In each case… in each case they had… oh look at this," he said, turning the book around and lifting it for her to see clearly. "Every phantom animal had its own action figure," he said pointedly.

"So it's the stuffed armadillo in room eight?" she gasped. "But why?"

"I don't know – cos I shot it off the TV?" he hazarded.

"You are joking."

"Oh trust me, spirits get pissed off for a lot less."

"You're _not_ joking. Good God," she sighed. "Why do all the men I meet turn out to be complete whack-jobs?"

"But I have a sense of humour, too," he grinned, closing the book and taking the shotgun from her. "So here's the plan: we get back to room eight and torch the cuddly summoning object, then swing by and get Sam, then make a run for it."

"You make it sound so easy," she teased.

"All–"

"And then you leave. I mean, you _two_ leave. Right?"

"Well we can't really stay here," he pointed out, then hesitated. "What?"

"Nothing," she said dismissively. "Come on then."

Dean watched her walk out of the store room cautiously, then looked at the floor for a long moment. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and followed her.

* * *

"Officer Mason, sir?" the policeman radioed gingerly.

Mason reached out and tabbed the button on the radio on his desk.

"Yes. Where are they?" he answered quickly.

"Sir, they're not here," the officer replied, "We've combed the crowd, sir. It's a negative," he said.

"And you're sure?"

"Yes sir."

"Then get back to the station. They've got the jump on us," Mason tutted. "And the FBI will be here in an hour." The connection was unceremoniously cut.

The next moment his phone rang. Mason looked at it for a long moment, then reached over and picked it up.

"Officer Mason?" said a female voice, and he blinked.

"Yes ma'am," he replied. "Who–"

"This is Agent Rebecca Swift, FBI. We'll be arriving in thirty minutes."

"Great – er… one problem," he said quickly.

"You _do_ have both brothers, Officer Mason? Or at the very least, Dean Winchester?"

"Ah… I have Samuel. And I know where Dean is," he added firmly.

"Where? We'll head there and apprehend him ourselves."

"He's…" He bit his lip, hating himself for giving it all away so easily. "He's at the Armadillo Inn, thirty miles from the–"

"We're on our way. Do not, and I repeat, do _not_ let Sam Winchester out of your sight."

The line went dead and Mason slammed his handset down angrily.

"Stuck up FBI bitch," he muttered. Then he got up quickly and hurried down to the interview room, sliding back the viewing window and looking in.

Sam was still sat as he'd been left, except he now had both elbows on the table and his chin in both hands. He was staring into space, ostensibly lost in it.

Mason smiled. At least he still had Sam. Things couldn't be all that bad.


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Dean hurried out to the car park through the same window they had used to get in. He ran to the boot of the Impala, skidding slightly in the wet gravel. He unlocked it and whipped it open, grabbing a small oilskin bag and slamming the boot lid.

He ran back to the window and tossed the small bag inside to Rosalea before hefting himself back through the opening.

"What's this?" she asked quickly, handing him the shotgun back and following him round to room eight.

"Barbecue tools," he grunted, hurrying over and snatching up the stuffed armadillo. He turned to her and swapped the oilskin bag in her hands for his shotgun, taking it and the creature into the bathroom.

She followed him, leaning on the doorjamb to see him about to sling the offending example of taxidermy into the bathtub.

He paused, looking at it.

"Hey look," he said, surprised, and she walked over to look too.

"What?"

"It's got a rip in the fur," he said, pre-occupied. "Maybe that's what caused it to suddenly come to life and start killing people."

"You know… I hate to say this, but…"

"What?" he asked, still studying the cut.

"Well… I just checked that room over before you two arrived – and it wasn't ripped then."

"You saying I damaged it, shooting it off the TV?" he asked, looking at her.

"It's possible," she smiled.

"Yeah well, put it on my bill," he said, looking back at it. "Hey… ah… The dude in the morgue they told you was me – did you get a good look at him?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh yeah, me and Sam got a real good look at him – he looked a lot like you at first glance," she said off-hand.

"Right…" Dean muttered, and Rosalea waited.

"What?" she asked slowly.

"So… It's come after me twice already," he said suddenly.

"What? You?"

"Yeah – it came looking for me, found me in your room…" he said thoughtfully. "Busted up the room, tried to kill me… Didn't work, it ran off… and thought it found me on the road out there. It hacked up that guy _by mistake_," he realised.

"So you're saying this spirit thing attacked the guy cos it thought he was you?" she hazarded.

"Maybe it needs contact lenses," he shrugged, deadpan.

She slapped his arm lightly. "Just burn it, Dean. Quickly."

He let it drop from his fingers into the tub soundly. He unwrapped the oilskin and emptied the contents in the sink next to him, picking up the lighter fluid and turning it on the armadillo, dousing it thoroughly.

"Uh-oh," Rosalea hissed, going to the bathroom window and throwing it open.

Dean ignored her, turning back to the jumble of items in the sink and finding the salt. He turned back and opened the lid, dumping small rough lumps of rock salt over the wet animal. He turned back and rummaged through for matches, but found none.

"Great," he snapped, slapping at his own pockets.

"What?" she asked quickly.

"You got a lighter?" he asked, looking around desperately.

"No, don't smoke," she admitted. She snapped her fingers quickly. "Reception! We give away matchbooks!"

She turned and ran out of the bathroom.

"Wait!" Dean called, picking up the shotgun and following her.

* * *

Agent Rebecca Swift leaned back in the passenger seat of the black SUV, reading her notes carefully.

"Right then," she said to the driver, a rather dour man called Grover. "This Dean character – he's not going to be easy."

"Shoot first, shout later?" he offered, noticing the sign for the motel and the eight miles left to go.

"In the knee," she said with satisfaction. "We want him in good enough condition to attend trial, after all."

"Good point," he nodded with a small smile. "I haven't seen the previous case notes to this one – what is he, another scrawny little psycho?"

"A one hundred and seventy-nine pound psycho with a lot of weapons," she said thoughtfully. "Might have a girl as an accomplice."

Grover shook his head disapprovingly. "What is it that these girls like about these weirdoes?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's just a smooth-talker," she sighed, lost.

* * *

"Ok you stinkin' piece of mouldy left-over corpse," Dean breathed, "kiss goodbye to the ugly-ass heap of furry crap that's been keeping that spirit here."

He stood over the bath and lit the entire matchbook. He waited a second for it to flare up completely, then dropped it on the armadillo.

It took a few seconds for the lump of fire to spread to the fur. The modest flames began to lick at the side of the animal, and Dean took a deep breath, nodding to himself.

"And that's it, is it?" Rosalea asked from behind him.

"Should be," he admitted.

" '_Should_ be'?" she prompted.

"Well killing spirits ain't exactly a science, Rosie," he said defensively. "But without its remains to tie it here, it should be _dead_-dead this time."

"Good," she said firmly. "I should go back to reception, explain why we have a small fire blazing in a bathtub in room eight," she said wearily.

"I'll just watch to make sure this actually does incinerate properly," he said, turning back to look at it. "Until its completely gone, there's a chance the spirit might come back."

"Like I said, you're a whack-job," she sighed, and he smiled slightly.

"A _cautious_ whack-job."

"That's what I like about you," she said, patting his shoulder before walking out, "you're thorough."

He smiled to himself smugly, watching the flames slowly cause the carcass to break apart and fold in on itself.

* * *

"Samuel," Mason said pleasantly, walking into the interview room and sitting slowly.

"Sir," he said quietly.

"I know how you must feel, telling us where to find your brother like that," he said sympathetically.

"Yeah," he managed.

"But… we couldn't find him. Now, I know you wouldn't have lied to me," he said suavely, "and I know Dean's not exactly on the level with anyone, so perhaps we were just unlucky and we missed him."

"He wasn't there?" Sam asked, apparently surprised.

"No, he wasn't," he said clearly. "And now I'm worried, cos those FBI guys are going to find him first, and I don't think they'll be asking him nicely to lay down his weapons, you see what I'm driving at?"

"I understand, sir," he said, then sat back, his face a little vacant, a little sad. "What do you need me to do?"

"What would you like to do?" he said curiously.

"I'd like to help you contain him. I don't want him to get hurt, sir. He might be a wanted man, but… he's still my brother," he mumbled ashamedly.

Mason nodded, sitting back and folding his arms.

"Good. Problem is, I don't really have any way to stop him shooting at me. I mean, I turn up there with a whole host of other flatfoots, he's going to shoot me, right?" he said smoothly.

"Probably, sir."

"So I need someone to talk to him. Someone to stop him shooting people. Someone he'll listen to for long enough for us to get inside and disarm him without anyone getting hurt. You see how you could help me here?" he said quietly.

_What an unctuous prick_, Sam thought automatically. "Yes sir," he admitted, keeping his face defeated. "I could go. I could try and talk to him."

"That's my boy," he grinned, and Sam fought down the revulsion. Mason got up, turning and gesturing to the mirror behind him. He turned back to Sam. "So then," he said, waving Sam to stand, "Let's get to the motel and apprehend him before those FBI suits, shall we?"

* * *

The door to the main motel room slammed and Dean jumped slightly.

"Alright!" he protested, walking out of the bathroom, leaving the armadillo to burn by itself. "What's the–"

He stopped as he saw Rosalea plastered against the door, pushing it closed desperately.

"I heard it!" she hissed at him.

Dean ran back into the bathroom, checked that the corpse was nearly completely consumed, and snatched up the shotgun from next to the sink.

"Well he ain't gonna be around for much longer," he growled, coming back out and looking at her. "Get away from the door." He raised the shotgun.

She sprang off the door quickly, running to the back of the room, standing a good ten feet behind him.

"So it's going to be ashes before it can come through that door, is it?" she said nervously.

"Hope so," he bit out, levelling the gun at the door and waiting.

A low hissing started just outside the door and Rosalea stiffened in fright. Dean's finger rubbed over the trigger slowly. The hissing moved to the left of the door, against the wall. Dean's aim followed it as it ranged from the left, back to the door, then over to the right.

"What's it doing?" she whispered.

"Who knows?" he breathed.

The hissing became a snuffling, panting sound and they stared, repulsed at the noises. There was a moan and a muffled sliding down.

"Rosie," Dean whispered hoarsely, and she swallowed. "Check the tub. See if it's all ashes yet."

She didn't answer, just crept over to the bathroom door. She ducked in and it was silent. She poked her head out again.

"It's gone," she whispered.

They both looked over at the door. A long moan echoed round the door, then there was a loud thump on the boards.

Rosalea jumped in shock. Dean simply stared at the door cautiously.

They waited a long moment in silence.

Suddenly there was an ear-splitting whine, and Rosalea clapped her hands over her ears. Dean flinched but did not lose his grip or aim on the shotgun.

"Dean Winchester! This is Captain Mason! Lay down your weapons and come out of there!" came a loudspeakered voice.

Rosalea looked at him, and Dean let his shoulders sag, the shotgun dropping abruptly.

"Son of a–"

"Uh… Dean?" came another voice, also over a loudspeaker, and Dean paused, listening. "It's me! Sam! Don't shoot me, I'm only trying to stop anyone getting hurt before the FBI arrive!" he called.

Dean closed his eyes, wiping at them slowly with his right hand.

"Fan-friggin'-tastic," he grunted. "Could it _be_ any more complicated?"

The door burst in abruptly. Dean lifted the shotgun. Rosalea screamed. They were showered in wood as they backed away to the window quickly.

And there, stood in the doorway, was the largest unearthly creature Dean had ever seen. It drew in a deep breath and let out a bellowing roar.

Then it threw itself at the human with the gun.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

Agent Swift drew her weapon from the holster under her left arm and checked the magazine was full. She looked out of the front window, her face changing to one of disgust as she found several local police cars in the entrance to the motel car park.

"Damn amateurs," she grunted, waiting for Grover to drive up behind them and stop the SUV. She stowed her gun before opening the door and jumping out quickly. Grover got out of the car swiftly, following her as she walked over to the first car. "Where's Officer Mason?" she demanded, pulling her badge and flashing it at the policeman.

"Over there, ma'am," he said smartly, pointing to the car in front of them. She walked off toward it.

"Office Mason," she called, and the tall, weedy man turned quickly to look at her.

"Agent Swift?" he asked. "Oh, er… I was just trying to get him to come quietly."

She opened her mouth to answer. But there was the earth-shattering roar of the angriest creature on Earth and the sound of a gun firing.

Mason, Swift and Grover exchanged incredulous glances.

"What the hell was that?" Grover asked flatly. Mason turned to look at Sam.

He was staring at the motel, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his eyebrows going through tortuous flipping routines in anxiety.

"Well son?" Mason demanded. "What was that?"

All three officers of the law looked at him.

"Very, very pissed," he breathed.

* * *

The shot spewed salt across the entire room. The bellowing wall of fur hesitated. Then its eyes fixed on the holder of the large gun. It sprang the length of the room.

Dean lifted the shotgun to his right, swinging it round. He slammed it into the head.

"Rosie! Bathroom!" he shouted.

He didn't have time to look or check. The beast shook off the crack to the head and whirled on the human. Two flailing paws caught him in the head and chest. Dean was flung off his feet and hit the wall above the TV. He crashed down to the floor, taking the table and TV with him.

Rosalea screamed. Even as he shook a very muggy head, Dean realised she was not in the bathroom.

He heard two shots fired and made his protesting neck look up.

The beast appeared to be reeling. It slapped paws to its chest as it roared and turned away from Dean. He crawled to his hands and knees. There was another shot, then another. Dean grabbed the fallen shotgun and used it to help him get to his feet.

The creature screamed in agony, turning on Dean. He lifted the shotgun, then remembered it was empty. The beast reached for him.

Rosalea fired the Glock again twice.

The first shot of salt went into the creature, its claws raking across Dean's t-shirt as it failed to get a grip on it. The second shot penetrated the dark haze of vanishing spirit and slammed into his front.

Dean stumbled back with the impact and bounced into the wall heavily. His head cracked into the wall and he tumbled to the floor, out cold.

Rosalea stared, frozen. She blinked, let her gun hand drop, and ran over to the fallen Dean. She let the gun tumble to the floor by his head and reached out, slapping at his face.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up, come on!" she called, then slapped him again for good measure.

"Barbecue sauce!" he gasped suddenly, surprising her. She paused, then pushed at his jacket, rolling him onto his back.

"You alright?" she asked quickly, watching him look round and get his bearings.

"Yeah… I think," he said, then his face screwed up. "_Awww!_ What the hell!" he growled in pain. "You _shot_ me!" he protested suddenly, lifting his head and trying to look at his front. "I told you _not_ to shoot me!"

"I shot the _thing_, but it disappeared," she pointed out, putting her hands to his jacket and helping him up. "Where did it go?"

"How should I know?" he rumbled painfully, clutching at her shoulder and slapping a hand against the wall to stop him falling over again. "It shouldn't be here anyway!"

"That's what I thought," she complained. "You said the stuffed one was the reason it was here. So if it's not, what is?"

He gestured to the shotgun on the floor, apparently not trusting himself to speak in front of a lady while he was in pain. She waited a moment for him to let go of her shoulder before she stooped to get the gun. He leaned back against the wall, opening his jacket and looking at the blood seeping from his t-shirt. He hissed in agony but she ignored him, her shaking hands struggling to open the shotgun.

"What are you doing?" he managed, wincing.

"Re-loading it. That thing could be on its way back."

He looked at her for a long moment, then took the shotgun from her and snapped it open. He put his hand out and she patted her pockets then looked round the room quickly. She found the fallen box of shells and raced over, picking it up and bringing it back. She handed shells over and he re-loaded it quickly and efficiently, snapping it shut with the ease of the practised, she noticed.

"First things first," he wheezed, trying to pretend nothing hurt. "Check the burnt toy."

She nodded and went into the bathroom, leaving him to lean over and put his hands on his knees, hissing and muttering.

She came back. "It's all ash, all of it," she said, confused. "So it's not the armadillo?"

"Well what the hell else could it be?" he growled, pushing himself up and round to the bathroom. He grasped the side of the tub and looked over. He put the shotgun on the sink and put his hand into the bath, shoving his fingers into the warm ash and scattering it about.

His fingertips connected with something and he moved it back to find a small, hard object in amongst the ash.

Rosalea appeared next to him. "Have you found something?"

"Something," he managed, trying to close his fingers round it.

"Dean Winchester! Rosalea Crow! Come out of there!" shouted a very close voice.

"Son of a–" Dean began.

Rosalea picked up the shotgun and took the Glock from the back of her trousers, going to the window and dropping them both out quickly. She closed it quietly and looked back at him. He nodded then gestured to the door with his head.

She walked out slowly, looking round the doorjamb to see four policemen pointing guns through what was once the door to the room, more nervous than a small nun at a penguin shoot.

She raised her hands with a small smile, as Dean came out of the bathroom behind her.

"Woah, the Wild Bunch," he quipped, as Captain Mason and a woman pushed their way through.

"Dean Winchester," she said firmly, putting a hand into her suit jacket and pulling out her ID. "I'm Agent Rebecca swift with the FBI. You're coming with me."

Rosalea just gaped, first at her, then at Dean. "The FBI? For two boys and an armadillo?"

* * *

Sam looked at his wrist handcuffed to the inside of the police car and huffed. Agent Grover turned round in the seat in front and looked at him.

"Not as soft as those local boys, are we Mister Winchester?" he smiled. "And don't think about pulling the '_I have to escape my evil brother's clutches_' routine. We really, _really_ don't care."

"Thanks," he said sarcastically. Grover smiled and turned back to look out the front windscreen. "Must be hard for you, though," Sam added sympathetically. Grover refused to turn around.

"Why?" he asked impatiently.

"Well, being named after a Muppet," Sam said helpfully. "And the blue one, too. Still, at least you're one of the cool ones. It could be worse, you could be Ker-"

"Samuel Winchester, shut up," Grover said tersely. Sam closed his mouth, his mammoth smug grin on the inside bleeding out slightly to produce a tiny, shiny smile of amusement on the outside.

It was silent for a long moment. Sam looked at the back of his head speculatively.

"Hey… Did you know you had a bald patch?" he asked innocently.

"I'm ignoring you and your pathetic attempts to distract me," Grover sighed.

"Ah. That must be how you do it," Sam shrugged.

"Do what?" the FBI agent asked, flicking his gaze up to the rear-view mirror and pinning Sam with a distinctly unimpressed look.

"Live with a bald patch," Sam said brightly, manipulating his wrist to bring it closer to his other one slowly.

Grover sighed and looked back out of the front window.

* * *

Agent Swift pushed a handcuffed Dean into the back of the SUV roughly. His foot caught the slight side plate to the step and he landed heavily on the back seat, hissing in pain.

"Hey, mind the merchandise, lady," he snapped. "Some of us just got shot." He shifted in the seat to make himself more comfortable.

"Mr Winchester, I couldn't be happier about your accomplice shooting you. I'm just disappointed it was only salt," she said seriously. He watched her slam the door and climb in the front seat. "And no, we're not keeping you with your brother. We're not complete idiots," she snapped.

"Well dayum," he stressed in his best approximation of a Texan, "and us poor hicks thought you'd up and let us go. Shoot."

She looked at him in the rear view mirror, then back at the radio unit. She reached forward and picked it up, clicking it on.

"Grover? This is Swift. I have Dean Winchester with me. Let's go," she barked. There was a crackle and a reply, and Dean looked around the inside of the vehicle slowly. She put the radio back and turned round in the seat to look at him again. "You won't find any paper clips, if that's what you're looking for," she smiled.

"Actually I was looking for some Coproximol," he sniffed. "And I _am_ bleeding here."

"Oh well, never mind," she said brightly, turning back round in the seat and reaching for the keys.

Dean let his gaze run over the back of her head.

"Didn't know you were a Rosicrucian," he said suddenly. She froze and looked round at him.

"What?" she asked quickly.

"Didn't think there were many left in the States," he added politely.

"How did you–"

"Nice hair clip," he said pointedly. "Tell me, do you have to be associated with Freemasons to work your way up the FBI now?"

"Shut up," she snapped, turning back to start the vehicle. "I'm not talking to you for the entire journey."

"My day gets better and better," he muttered to himself.

She looked to her right, through the window, and he sprang up quickly. He pushed one arm round and over, clamping it back into her throat.

She struggled and grabbed at his arm, but a bucket would have had more chance of bailing out the _Titanic_ than she had against his strength.

"Don't panic lady, I'm the not murderer you people think I am," he wheezed. She fought for breath but she was already slipping into unconsciousness.

He waited until he was sure she was out cold, then he turned to the front passenger seat and looked for keys to his handcuffs.


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN**

Sam stole across to the police car quickly. He kept low, sliding along the driver's door. He wanged it open with a jolt, lunging at the officer within. Two lightning fast blows to his chin had him out cold across the front seats.

"Sam!" Rosalea gasped from the rear seat. "Am I glad to see you!"

Sam didn't pause. He rifled through the officer's uniform shirt pocket and snatched the small ring of keys, turning to the back seat.

"Hey Rosie," he said swiftly. "We need to go."

"I'm with you there," she breathed. "Where's Dean?"

"He'll probably be along any moment," Sam allowed, snaking out of the car and to the back door. He flung it open quickly and went to the handcuffs holding her to the cage behind the driver's seat.

"Good. What about the FBI?" she asked as her wrists were freed.

"They came in a pair. I've done my part, I'm sure Dean's taking care of his side of things," he said curtly. She rubbed her wrists and he grabbed her arm, pulling on her to get out. She shifted out as fast as she could, shutting the door behind her quickly. She looked up at Sam.

"And then?" she asked urgently.

Sam was looking around, checking the one other patrol car and the two FBI SUVs. He lifted a hand abruptly and waved as she grabbed his other arm.

"Sam!" Dean called, hurrying over the grass to them. Rosalea pulled at Sam more insistently and he looked at her.

"What?" he asked. She pointed.

"Don't – move!" Officer Mason called out harshly. Sam and Rosalea turned to see him pointing his gun at them angrily.

Dean came into view ten feet to their right and Mason swung his weapon round quickly. Dean stopped dead with a tiny skid, putting his hands up in surrender.

"Woah, man, don't do anything you'll regret here," he said quickly.

"Shut up!" Mason snarled. He swung the gun back toward Sam and Rosalea, then back at Dean quickly, unsure of where to point. He kept his aim moving between them sharply and the two Winchester brothers exchanged an anxious glance. "None of you are leaving here! You hear me!"

"Officer Mason–" Sam began.

Mason fired and Sam went over backwards as if yanked from behind.

"_Saaauum!_" Dean roared.

Mason turned in time to see the unmitigated wrath of Dean Winchester cross the distance between them uncomfortably fast. Dean grabbed his wrist and yanked his aim to the left. He twisted and Mason's wrist made a sickening clicking noise. The gun tumbled from his grip as he cried out in agony.

"Dean!" Sam breathed painfully from the grass. Rosalea had dropped to her knees and was trying to get him up.

Dean didn't hear. White, seething fury flooded through him more strongly than he'd ever felt. Dean let go of the man's wrist and grabbed his uniform shirt with his right hand. He wrenched and drove his head into Mason's with as much weight as he had.

Mason was pushed to the grass with a painful grunt. Dean was on him in a second, fists lashing, growled invectives struggling to be heard over the sounds of flesh connecting with bones.

"Dean!" Rosalea shouted desperately.

Perhaps it was the weariness of the pain in his own frame – the same physical pain he felt after every Hunt scratched, pummelled or bent him out of shape. Perhaps it was the refusal to accept a real, live _person_ inflicting wounds where they had no right, considering they shared a species. Perhaps it was the abject fear and shattering numbness of knowing that he had failed his kid brother again, and again he had been hurt. Perhaps it was simply the frustration at knowing he was destined to go places he truly, truly did not deserve to go.

Whichever feeling it was, it shot through the elder Winchester with such strength he could taste it. It made it impossible for him to stop beating at the man underneath him. Blinded to the sights of the bloody mess beneath him, deafened by his own demons, he was shocked to feel hands grab at his left wrist.

He pulled and it came free much too easily. He turned, ready to fling Sam across the grass for daring to get in between him and his task at hand.

But long auburn hair swung across his vision, the smaller, bonier hands grasped at his wrist again, and brown eyes stared back at him in fear and desperation.

"Dean!" Rosalea said quickly. "Sam's on his feet. Leave him. We have to go – now!"

He stared at her for a long second, feeling the real world and its problems seep back into his tiny bubble of hate and revenge. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. She pulled on his wrist.

"Come on," she hissed.

He watched her let go and turn back to Sam, inserting herself under his left arm and grabbing him tightly, walking him away as fast as she dared.

Dean turned and looked down at Mason under him. Bloodied, bruised and definitely out for the immediate future, Mason was no longer a problem. Dean looked down at his own hands and the blood on them.

He got up quickly, turning and following Sam and Rosalea to the Impala, still parked round the side of the motel. He pulled the keys from his pocket, tossing them at Rosalea.

She caught them but just looked at him.

"I need something from room eight," he called. "Get Sam in the car, turn her round." He spun on his heel and ran for the window of room eight.

Rosalea leaned Sam against the car, huffing and cursing, wincing as he clutched at his upper arm in agony. She unlocked the car and pulled the door open quickly, turning to him and helping him in. He was safely ensconced in the back seat, comfortable but nevertheless hissing in pain, as she climbed in the driver's door and slammed the keys into the ignition. She gunned the engine and slid it into Reverse, pulling round cautiously.

Another moment and Dean was hurling himself out of the window and running for the passenger door. Rosalea leaned over and pushed it open hurriedly and he jumped in.

"Go!" he snapped.

The Impala, uncomfortable with hands on the wheel that were not Dean's, fought the almost overwhelming urge to hesitate. She instantly realised she was fully prepared to make do while her two normal charges were in danger, and she roared into life. She carried them out of the car park and put her best effort into beating her record drag time down the open road.

The Impala pulled up at the side of the road, its throaty ticking-over reassuring everybody concerned that they had a chance at out-running any and all authorities after them.

Dean leaned back over the front seat, putting his hand out to Sam's wrist and pulling it toward him. Sam hissed and bit his tongue as Dean inspected the bullet wound to his upper arm carefully.

"It's gone right through," he observed with a snap to his voice no-one cared for. "Not too bad though. We need to stop and get it cleaned."

"Both you boys need patching up," Rosalea put in, turning in the seat. "Where do we go?"

"Sam's still bleeding," Dean said, letting go of his brother's wrist and looking at Rosalea. "Swap. You get back there and stop it. I'll drive."

"But–" she began. He simply jerked a thumb at the rear seat and she let her protest die on her lips. Instead she pushed him back deliberately, crawling over the seats and landing next to Sam on the rear one. "Have you got a kit?" she asked him, as Dean shifted over to the driver's side.

He slid the Impala into gear and gripped the steering wheel. She spun delightedly in the gravel, overwhelmed to have him back in the driver's seat. The tyres found purchase in the loose shingle and she all but jumped from the side of the road, swerving back onto the tarmac and letting Dean guide her where he would.

Rosalea grabbed at the duffle in the footwell behind the passenger seat, rifling through to see if it held anything useful. With Sam's help she managed to disinfect, cover and bandage the wound as they shot down the black highway.

"Sammy?" Dean grumped angrily.

"Yeah, I'm good," he managed, still sounding pained. Rosalea sat round, going through the duffle again for anything resembling painkillers.

"Good. This ain't over yet. We still gotta stop that goddamn armadillo," Dean said, flicking his gaze to the rear view mirror. Rosalea paused and looked at him, catching the full force of his serious face.

"What?" she demanded. "I thought we burned the thing keeping it here, you said."

"Yeah, and then it tried to kill us," he pointed out, although Sam noticed the anger had mostly drained from his tone. "I think I know why."

"What is it?" Sam asked quickly, watching Rosalea pull out a plastic blister pack of painkillers. She popped two out and passed them to him to look for water.

"Guess what was left behind when we burnt the stuffed one," Dean said.

"Really dude, I'm not in the mood to guess," Sam protested.

"Half the blade someone killed it with," Dean supplied.

"You are jokin' me," Sam stated flatly.

"I wish. Poor bastard had a violent death alright. Someone stabbed it in the back and snapped a good two inches of tip off. I'm willing to bet that's why it's pissed off," Dean added.

"And then some!" Rosalea interrupted. "If someone stabbed _me_ in the back I'd be sure to find him and kill him!"

Sam just looked at her, then up at the rear view mirror. Dean held out for as long as he could, but in the end he couldn't _not_ look up at his younger brother in the glass. They exchanged an uneasy glance as Rosalea found the water and unscrewed the lid for Sam.

He took the tablets quickly and the Impala was filled with an uneasy silence.

"So where are we headed?" Rosalea asked.

"Out of the state," Dean replied. "All we have to do is reach–"

There was an almighty thump on the roof. The Impala fish-tailed dangerously wide and only Dean's skill prevented them from skidding straight off the road and flipping roof-first into the ditch.

"What the hell!" Sam shouted, bracing himself against the door. Rosalea grabbed onto the front seat.

Something heaved and lurched at the roof directly above Sam's head. Again the car twitched dangerously.

"Oh yeah?" Dean shouted in rage, apparently directed at the roof. His foot rose off the accelerator as he shifted in the seat. "Then bite _this_, you short-sighted bastard! – _Hold on!_"

Sam grabbed the door and Rosalea's arm. Dean gripped the wheel and twitched it to the right and back. The back-end of the Impala stepped out and he hauled the wheel hard to the left.

Tyres squealed in agony. Suspension struts protested. Hydraulic springs screamed bloody murder. The car spun ninety degrees left on a sixpence. There was a heart-stopping nano-second: the entire Chevy bounced up along one side, screeching to a stop. Just as Sam was sure it was about to pitch right over onto its roof Dean's boot crushed the accelerator. She faithfully leapt forward and he slid her back round to the sound of squealing tyres.

He lifted his foot and slammed it down on the brake as he whipped at the wheel. The Impala slewed through one hundred and eighty degrees.

She came to a definite stop – half of her screaming for mercy, the other half begging to try it again.

Rosalea opened her eyes to find herself clinging to Sam on the back seat. He was hanging onto the hand rail above his head and the seat desperately. They both turned and looked at Dean.

He snatched up something from the passenger seat and was out of the driver's door before Sam could draw breath.

Rosalea pushed herself off him and looked through the front windscreen. She gasped.

"It's back!" she cried. "Look!"

Sam shifted and grabbed at his duffle, trying to open the door too. Rosalea's eyes grew round as she realised Dean was on the road, a handgun behind his back and a small, shiny object in his right hand. Her gaze ran up to the huge beast in the middle of the dark road, brandishing claws and roaring in anger.

She looked at Sam quickly. He met her gaze fearlessly, then pushed open his door, springing out into the night.

"Wait! You're injured!" she pointed out, but he closed the door in her face urgently.

"Wait here Rosie! We'll deal with this," he said confidently, hearing Dean shout something even as the beast roared at him again.

"What? No! You'll both be killed!" she cried fearfully.

Sam smiled grimly, lifting the shotgun in his hands and pumping two salt pellets into the chambers.

"We've been dead before." He took a deep breath. "_Stay. Here_."


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

Sam turned and ran toward Dean. He saw the huge beast clearly for the first time.

It stood so tall, so very tall, over his brother. He realised he was not going to get close enough in time. He skidded to a stop and raised the shotgun. The beast lurched for Dean, reaching out huge clawed paws to grab at him. Dean's hands didn't move but he ducked back and under. The creature protested loudly, swinging for him carelessly.

Sam let the shotgun drop a little, knowing he couldn't get a shot off with Dean in the way. He moved round to the side, raising it again, watching in disbelief. Every swipe, every grab, every reach; they all missed. Dean made no attempt to defend himself except to duck and weave backwards, forwards, under, around.

The creature flung itself at him in frustration. Dean threw himself to the side but the beast caught his shoulder with a talon. It smacked him forward and he stumbled, falling to his knees. The beast turned quickly and let itself drop toward him.

"Dean!" Sam warned, lifting the shotgun.

"Wait!" Dean shouted back, on the ground and rolling. The beast was already moving, throwing its arms wide and tumbling after the apparently flailing human.

Sam let off a shot. The salt burned through the air and into the pseudo-fur. It began to swirl blackly in weakness.

"No! Sam!" Dean accused. The creature opened his arms and turned to face Sam. Dean shot up to his feet. His right fist glinted as he slammed it into the beast's chest.

It reeled, screaming and snarling. It put out a hand and the back of it powered straight into Dean's head. He was lifted off his feet and flew twice his own body length before slamming into the road with an awful crack.

Sam dropped the shotgun. He ran full-tilt into the beast, wrenching the tiny gleaming snapped-off tip of blade from its chest and hammering it home.

The creature squealed and roared, clawing desperately to grab at Sam's arms. He pushed its weakened efforts aside. He pushed the blade in and shoved up with all his remaining strength.

He stood back, watching the creature flail and screech piteously. Tiny flecks of black fur rippled from the body, flapping away like butterfly wings. The fur flew away faster and faster, whirling around and making Sam raise his arms across his face. He stepped back further as the wind changed, pulling the remnants of fur, blood and body back in on itself. There was a terrific sucking sound of air and matter.

It stopped abruptly and Sam let his arms drop. He felt his left arm throb but ignored it, simply staring at the burnt patch in the surface of the tarmac. He swallowed, then shook himself and looked around wildly.

"Dean!" he called, racing across the road and finding his brother face-down, unconscious. "Dean!" he called again, putting his hand to his brother's bleeding neck and feeling for a pulse. He felt relief wash off him like rain as he realised his pulse was strong. He let himself sit back for a second before leaning over him and pressing his hands to his brother's neck, then shoulders, arms and legs.

"You'd better be a chick," Dean wheezed suddenly, starting to cough. Sam grinned, he couldn't help it.

"I'm checking you haven't broken any bones, dumbass," he said, feeling down his brother's back.

"Get your hands offa me," Dean grunted, but Sam caught the almost amused tone in his voice. "I'm ok, Sammy. We gotta go."

He put his hands under him and pushed, managing to roll over and sit up. He wobbled but refused to let himself fall over again. His dive to the road had cut his temple open, as well as gashing his chin and cheek enough to let them both leak. He looked at Sam wearily.

"I take it you got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Sam shrugged easily, and Dean look relieved for a second.

"Show-off," he grinned, getting to his feet slowly. His sense of balance left him and Sam grabbed at his elbow to steady him.

They heard a car door slam and looked over to find Rosalea walking toward them slowly, arms folded as if to keep her warm.

"Right, ignoring what I saw happen just now, we really, _really_ have to leave," she said firmly. "You two boys need to get out of here."

"Abso-friggin'-lutely," Dean breathed, stretching his shoulders out and hissing in pain.

* * *

Rosalea pulled the Impala to a stop, switching off the ignition and sliding her hands round the steering wheel slowly.

"Well," she breathed quietly, "looks like this is where we part company. Do me a favour, look after these two for me." She smiled at her own actions, shaking her head and looking over at the passenger seat.

Dean was fast asleep, stretched out with his arms loosely folded. His neck had moulded over the top of the seat and his mouth was wide open. She snorted in amusement and looked over her shoulder at Sam, curled up on the back seat sleeping like a tiger after a three day hunt.

She looked at the two of them for a long moment, then sighed and leaned over, nudging Dean's arm.

"Hey, come on," she said warmly. "We're here. Rise and shine."

He opened his eyes slowly, looking round and finding the small motel car park bright with noonday sun.

"I can do the rising thing, but we'll have to talk about the shining a little later," he managed, clearing his throat and sitting up slowly.

"Sam," Rosalea called, leaning back and slapping at the taller man's knee. "Hey, lazy-ass," she grinned.

He opened an eye quickly, sitting up as if poked.

"We're at a motel?" he said brightly.

"Yep."

"Super," he said, then yawned. He raised his wrist to look at his watch. "It's nearly one in the afternoon!"

"Yep," she said, getting out of the car and closing the door. Dean pushed his door open slowly, holding it wide with his foot as he pushed himself out of the car laboriously. Sam pushed the seat forward and scrambled out smartly, noticing his brother's sleepy eyes miss the main entrance. He put a hand out and pushed him round slightly.

Dean ignored him and walked off, leaving Sam to close the door and go to the boot. He opened it up and took out the two duffle bags, following him inside.

Rosalea was turning away from the desk, waving a key. "Come on then boys," she said cheerfully, "hot showers and good beds await."

"Somehow I doubt that," Dean grumbled, but he followed her down the hall, checking once that Sam was behind him.

She unlocked and opened the door, waving the two boys in first. They walked straight to the beds and sat heavily, wiping faces or scrubbing at hair while she closed the door and looked at them. She put her hands on her hips slowly.

"Right then, who's first?" she asked.

Dean looked up at her. "Pardon me?"

"Cuts and stitches," she said clearly, with an indulgent smile. "Sam's arm needs looking at, and all that's holding _you_ together is a t-shirt that's mostly in ribbons."

Dean chucked a thumb at Sam. "Him first."

"Yeah, first we'll check the guy who's _not_ bleeding to death from a thousand cuts," she said sarcastically, "that makes sense."

"Rosie," he said wearily, and she lifted her hands.

"Fine," she managed, then looked at Sam. But he lifted his hands in surrender too, waving at her.

"Really, I'm fine," he said, lifting his bandaged arm for her to see. "Still good, see?"

"Great." She turned to Dean, her hands again going to her hips. "Right then. Get your jacket off. And your sorry excuse for a mauled t-shirt."

Dean opened his mouth to protest but Sam got up quickly.

"Rosie, Rosie," he said urgently, putting his hands on her arms. "Look, you've been driving all night, and all morning. We've been asleep – but you must be tired, right?"

She sighed, wiping her face slowly. "A little. But being tired is nothing compared to being cut up–"

"I know, I know, believe me," he said soothingly. "Could you do us a favour? Could you get us something to drink?"

She looked at him for a long moment, then looked round him to Dean. He had peeled off his jacket but was pushing himself back on the bed, looking like he was about to go back to sleep. She looked back at Sam.

"If you'll promise me you'll see to him," she said quietly. He simply looked at her, but his eyes spoke volumes. She nodded and he released her arms. "Coffee?" she asked.

"I'll have a coffee – I'll probably need to drive. Get him a hot chocolate," he said warmly.

"With whipped cream on it," Dean mumbled from the bed, his eyes already closed. Sam looked at him then back at Rosalea.

"Ok," she nodded, turning and leaving the room slowly. The door closed and Sam went over to Dean, slapping at his boots on the bedcovers.

"No feet on the laundry, dude," he said with a smile, grabbing his brother's duffle and opening it.

"Bite me," Dean muttered, his eyes still closed. "I ache in places I didn't know I had."

"Yeah, I can see that," Sam said, sitting on the bed. "Come on, you know the drill. A few minutes of antiseptic and stitches, then you can piss and moan all you want."

"After I've slept."

"After I've kicked your ass if you don't wake up now," Sam pressed. Dean opened an eye and looked at his younger brother. They stared at each other for a long moment. Eventually Dean huffed as if it were all cosmically unjust, then opened his other eye too and lifted himself to sit.

* * *

It was a whole four hours later that the three of them, all freshly triaged, showered and fed, emerged from the room. They crossed to the car slowly, Rosalea dragging her feet. She put her hands in her back pockets, watching the men chuck their duffles in the back of the sleek vehicle.

"I think he wants to drive," Sam said to her kindly, but when she looked back at him she couldn't bring herself to smile.

"Yeah," she said gingerly. Dean turned and looked at her. "Look, I ah… I was standing in line, at Starbuck's, and I was thinking… Well, I… I called my sister. She didn't even hang up on me," she said bravely, looking at Sam. "I think I'm gonna… Well we haven't seen in each other in three years – nearly four. So I'm just gonna… I'm going to go see her," she said firmly.

Sam nodded. "Sounds like you should."

"Yeah," she managed. She looked at Dean, walking over and leaning on the side of the car in front of him. "Thanks for… killing random armadillos, and… and thanks for not being assholes," she added.

Dean's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Wow. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. I think," he quipped.

"Then you definitely need to drop by, you two. Give us a year to straighten things out and stop fighting like girls, then come see us," she said warmly.

Dean flicked his gaze to his feet awkwardly.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she said quietly. Dean looked up quickly.

"It's not that, Rosie, it's just that – well I'm not going to be–"

"He's not going to be able to say no," Sam interrupted cheerfully. Dean closed his mouth, and she looked back at the two of them.

"Well… good," she said brightly. "Take it easy, you two. And look after this car," she grinned.

"Will do," Dean agreed quietly. She nodded, then leaned into him and kissed him meaningfully. A full minute later she pulled him away, then leaned on him, putting her arms round him and hugging him tightly.

"Thanks for making me laugh," she whispered against his ear.

"Thanks for not crashing my car," he grinned, and she pulled him away. She nodded to him before walking over and giving Sam a big hug too.

"Bye Sam. Thanks," she said quietly.

"Thank _you_, Rosie," he said warmly.

"Ok, you can go now," she said to them both happily. "I'm not good with goodbyes." She turned swiftly. She walked away, into the motel room, closing the door behind her soundly.

Sam looked at Dean for a long moment, but he appeared to be lost in some reflection in the car's paintwork.

"You driving or what? Ready?" he asked quietly. Dean looked up smartly, as if only just remembering he were there.

"Always," he quipped, opening the door again and getting in. Sam rolled in the passenger seat and watched him slide the keys in the ignition. But he hesitated, and Sam waited. And waited. "Go on, say it," Dean said heavily.

"What?" he asked, lost.

"She's quite a girl."

Sam just watched him stare at the steering wheel, his green eyes clouded with something he didn't want to share with his younger brother.

"Yes she is," Sam said firmly. He cleared his throat quietly when Dean still didn't move. "But… wow, dude," he said suddenly, grinning, "that had to be a first."

"First for what?" Dean asked.

"What a weird case this time. I mean – an armadillo. How random is that?" he chuckled.

"Yeah. Still, done and dusted now, man," Dean said, reaching for the ignition keys again.

"Yeah, all done. And look," he said, holding up an only slightly worn cassette tape in a box with just a single crack in the front pane. "Only, I couldn't find Metallica's '_Black_' album. Sorry."

Dean looked at the cassette box then grinned ear to ear suddenly, despite the split attempting to heal in his lower lip. He took it from his brother's fingers smartly.

" '_The Original Bad Company Anthology_'? With '_Silver Blue and Gold_'? Awesome!"

"And Rosie gave me this for you," he added, handing him another tape.

"Nickelback?" he asked in confusion, as if the word were new to him, then stared at it. "Is that a 1960 Thunderbird on the cover?" he mused, distracted.

"Yeah. She said there was a track called '_Animals_' you have to hear," Sam said with a smile.

"Sweet," Dean grinned. He looked up at Sam for a long moment. "Thanks, man."

"Sorry for throwing Metallica out the window."

"Forget it," he said, leaning forward and starting the engine. He let it purr, grinning, as he opened the Bad Company tape and pushed it into the tape player. The familiar strains of Ralphs' guitar flooded the Impala and Dean's grin only widened, his eyes shining.

He looked at Sam, and for the barest of moments he was the happy twelve year old brother Sam missed so much. Then he looked away, putting the Impala into Drive and pulling out of the car park.

"Now all we need is a bar. And some Purple Nurples."

Sam huffed. "Really dude, just drive – anywhere the police _aren't_."

"We've been through a lot of shit this past few days – I've got stitches in my shoulder," he pointed out. "I think we should just get a few drinks in."

"Dude–"

"Stitches," Dean protested, one hand up in disbelief. "And anyway, how can you get me a Bad Company tape and expect me _not_ to think about drinking?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, already smiling. Dean appeared to have recovered most, if not all, of his wicked side since the tape had started playing. _And the best bit is, it's not Metallica!_

"Most of their songs are about drinking," Dean grinned.

"Like?"

"'_Can't Get Enough Of Your Nurples_'?" he prompted, pointing at the tape player to indicate the song currently filling the car with sound, and Sam let himself grin.

"Dude, that's not the title of the song."

"Well it should be," Dean chuckled.

"It's weak. How about '_Feel Like Making Nurples_'," he challenged.

"No wait, how about '_She Brings Me Nurples_'," Dean said seriously, then cast a sideways glance at Sam. They both chuckled.

"'_Crazy Nurples_', definitely," Sam managed. "And what about Kansas?"

"'_Carry On My Wayward Nurple_'!" they said together.

"Or AC/DC?" Dean prompted.

"'_Highway to Nurples_'?" Sam guessed.

"Or no, wait!" Dean laughed suddenly. "Filter!"

"Aw no, man!" Sam protested.

"Yeah yeah yeah – '_Hey Man, Nice Nurple_'!" Dean laughed. Sam burst into a full-blown belly laugh, setting Dean off too, and the Impala resounded with the cheerful guffaws of genuine happiness.

"Does it work for Britney Spears?" Sam said eventually, having recovered.

Dean's eyes flickered round the dashboard as he thought about it. "'_Hit Me Nurple One More Time_'?" he hazarded.

There was a silence, then the brothers looked at each other.

"Nah!" they chorused, shaking heads in disgust.

"Ok, old skool – '_Like A Nurple Out Of Hell_'?" Sam offered.

"You can bet your ass that _will_ be gone before the morning comes," Dean laughed.

The Impala drove on, politely ignoring the driver's attempts to pretend he was in charge. She followed the slight bends and twists, rumbling over the shallow ripples in the surface, chewing up the miles easily.

She purred along, amused and warmed by the sound of the two occupants laughing and joking just as they had used to, a long time ago. There had been a third occupant back then, one who had tried to shush their bawdy teenage humour with his growly demeanour, to impress on them not to annoy the driver lest the tape player be turned up till it drowned them out.

The third occupant might be gone, the next oldest in danger of joining him, but for now, she had her family where she wanted them.

She rumbled on, not wanting the day to end, neither knowing nor caring what dusk would bring.

**THE END**

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

Yes, I am seriously thinking about getting a t-shirt made up of those Bad Company song titles, and wearing it to the LA convention March 29th + 30th. Would be rude not to, right?


End file.
